Chapter Text
This place wouldn’t be different, he was sure of it. After three foster homes, Willie had stopped being scared of these places and just got tired and reserved. Be polite, be on guard, and don’t get too upset when they send you back.
His social worker, Ms. Graham was driving the car with Willie in the backseat. They could hear the newest pop hit play quietly on the radio and he tapped his fingers on his skateboard in time with it while he looked out the window.
The car turned into a suburban neighbourhood. One of those you see in the movies before it all goes to shit. Every lawn manicured and every house painted in an admittedly nice yellow colour.
It’s the kind of neighbourhood where a white collar man could live with his wife, dog, and two and a half kids. The oldest daughter is top of her class and the parents go to all of her ballet recitals. The younger son is just okay at soccer and has his participation medals hung up in his room. The perfect life.
This won’t last.
Once the car reaches the Molina household, Ms. Graham kills the engine. But before Willie could open the door, it locks. He looks up to see Ms. Graham has turned around and fixed him with a stern look.
“Listen William.”
“It’s Willie.” He corrected under his breath and she closes her eyes for a split second because she’s too professional to roll them. She starts again.
“The Molinas are a nice family. Since group homes don’t seem to work for your case, maybe this will be better.” She already said this. Multiple times. He’ll believe it when he sees it. “Promise me you’ll make an effort?”
And there. That look on her face. The look that humanises her just a little in Willie’s eyes. She really just wants to do her job. It’s not enough to make him stop sneaking out, skating and cursing out cops, but it makes it a bit harder when she picks him up at the station with that look.
He nods silently.
———
When the door to the suburban home opens, they’re greeted by a man who looks like he’s been waiting at the door. He looks nice enough, but looks can be deceiving. Willie can hear kids talking inside and can smell pizza.
“Ms. Graham, nice to see you.” They shake hands. “And you must be William, nice to meet you.” He extends a hand.
Willie makes no move to take it. “It’s Willie.” He feels Ms. Graham’s internal groan like a vibrational pull.
But unlike his social worker, Mr. Molina just immediately corrects himself with a smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, Willie. Welcome to the Molina household.” He didn’t seem offended at the lack of a handshake, and steps aside so they can walk in.
Willie keeps his board firmly under his arm as he walks in and looks around. It looked like the suburban home it was. Family photos, both staged and candid, knick knacks on the shelves and papers on the kitchen island.
He walks into the dining room to see a table with four pizza boxes and sitting by it, two kids. Ms. Graham told him about Julie and Carlos. That Carlos was excited to get an older brother and that Julie was around his age.
Julie looks up and smiles at him, swallowing her pizza before talking. “Hey, you must be William.”
“Willie.” It shouldn’t bother him so much. They don’t know. Why would they? But hearing that name just feels like his heart is being twisted.
He sounded harsher than he intended, and seemed to throw Julie off. Carlos however sees the skateboard and immediately goes wild. It breaks the ice nicely and makes it easier to sit down at the table.
Ms. Graham and Mr. Molina were talking in the other room so it’s just the three of them. He’s used to eating with at least five other people. He likes this a lot more.
Willie answers Carlos’ questions, because they’re a lot easier than those yet to come.
Sure enough, when Mr. Molina steps back in and sits down, he tries talking to Willie. To bridge the gap as it were.
“Is the pizza okay? I didn’t know what kinds of toppings you liked so I stuck to a safe pepperoni.”
“It’s fine.” He says curtly, looking at his plate and avoiding long conversation.
“So, I saw your skateboard. Did you draw those stickers on the bottom?” The question is trying too hard in Wllie’s opinion but he nods. The board is under his chair, always within reach.
It feels very forced, at least for now. Mr. Molina, sensing that Willie isn’t in the mood to talk, starts going over some base house rules. Most of which are very regular and easy to understand.
You can eat whenever and whatever you want from the kitchen, curfew at ten (he’ll definitely be breaking that one), no violence towards anyone in the house with no exception (no worries there, Willie wasn’t a very violent teenager, even if he is troubled), but then came the one that made him freeze. All homework must be completed before going out, video games and so on.
Listen, it’s not that Willie is a horrible student or anything, but they have been scraping by with the bare minimum for a while. Showing up to school and listening to the lectures, doing the in class work, and goes home. He doesn’t do homework.
Why try? The teachers already gave up on him, so why should he try to prove them wrong? They aren’t worth his time anyway. It’s more fun to skate anyway.
He didn’t even want to do good.
Nope. He definitely didn’t care.
“Willie?” Mr. Molina asks, noticing how Willie tensed at the mention of that particular rule.
“Hm.” Willie just gives a shug and keeps eating. So that’s definitely a rule he’ll be breaking regularly.
After dinner, Mr. Molina showed Willie the home. It was a really nice place that lacked the tension and uniformity of the group homes.
Carlos’ room seemed like the normal kid mess with some trophies and posters of baseball players. None of which Willie could name.
Julie’s was significantly cleaner and colourful with nail polish in neat rows on the vanity and shelves stocked with trinkets and books.
Then came his own room. It was a lot bigger than the ones in his previous homes, and a window that could open wide enough to escape during the night. Score.
The woods were mismatched, but all very warm. The bedspread was a checkered yellow and white pattern and a pillow to match. Mr. Molina directed him to the walk-in closet where Willie’s clothes were in a garbage bag on the floor. It had lost its significance after the third time.
“And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. This is your home as much as it is Julie’s.” Willie just nodded. He wanted to get to work unloading his clothes and sketchbooks.
“So… I’ll leave you to unpack. Unless you need help?” He seemed pretty out of his depth. Ms. Graham told Willi this was the Molina’s first time fostering a teenager, so that might be part of it. “No thanks, mr. Molina.”
He’s quick to waive that off. “Please, call me Ray.”
“Okay… Ray.” That felt strangely familiar. Too casual. They were used to a foster parent being more like a boss. Someone who managed a bunch of troubled kids and teenagers.
Ray closes the door softly behind him, leaving Willie to dump his clothes and belongings out onto the floor to get the ones he uses most often. He doesn’t bother unpacking properly just yet, leaving the clothes on the floor, instead laying down on the bed and texting the group chat.
FreeWillie: “Just got into the new placement. This place is huge and I don’t even have to share with anyone.”
A few moments later, a response comes through.
Racetrack: “How r they?”
BobbyPin: “What he means by that is ‘How hard will it be to keep sneaking out?’”
Racetrack: “Whaaaaat?”
Racetrack: “A man cant wanna hang out w his best buds?”
FreeWillie: “I’ll be laying low for a while. Don’t wanna piss him off if he turns out to be pshcicotic like Covington.”
FreeWillie: “Psycoric”
FreeWillie: “Phycotic”
FreeWillie: “U know what I mean.”
BobbyPin: “So no hangout tonight?”
FreeWillie: “I don’t wanna make them mad after I just got here.”
Racetrack: “Come ooooooon.”
Racetrack: “I wanna skate that new car tower.”
BobbyPin: “You mean a parking garage?”
Willie smiled at his phone at his phone. God, he loved his friends. They don’t take things too seriously, which in a world of foster homes and being a troubled orphan, is a godsend.
Of course they’re sensitive, but they treat him like the person he is. They joke around with him about his previous placements, but Bobby was the one who blew the whistle on the Covington group home after seeing Willie’s bruises.
Racetrack got him a place to stay when he ran away from another one, knowing that it wouldn’t last. He just knew Willie needed somewhere to stay. Away from the world for awhile.
Willie was so lucky in the friends department.
It would be okay as long as he had them.
It would be okay