The Clouds
His eyes point up at the clouds.
Watching the clouds had always been one of his favorite things to do. After school, he would find a quiet spot where he could sit and stare upward, letting his imagination run freely. Sometimes he would spend hours searching for familiar shapes among the drifting white masses. Animals, faces, castles, and strange creatures that existed only in his mind.
There were no rules to this game. No right or wrong answers. No one telling him what he should see or how he should see it.
He could see a dog, perhaps. One with enormous ears and a tail that curled over its back.
He liked dogs. He had always wanted one.
He thought maybe someday, when he had a home of his own, he would get one. A big dog that would follow him everywhere, sleep beside his bed, and come running whenever he called its name.
He could almost picture it.
For whatever he imagined was his alone.
For alone is what he had been. He wondered if his mother's face would appear in the clouds. A 2-year-old doesn't have many memories, but there was something left that never quite disappeared.
The sound of her voice. Looking up at someone there for him. Until the day she wasn't.
Sometimes he thought he remembered her face.
Had she smiled at him? Had she kissed him goodbye? Had she turned around for one last look before walking away?
He couldn't remember.
He often wondered where his mother was now. Whether she was happy. Whether she had another family. Maybe there were other children who woke each morning to the sound of her voice and fell asleep each night with her kiss upon their foreheads.
Did she ever think about him?
He liked to believe she did.
Sometimes he imagined that she was looking at the same clouds, somewhere far away. Maybe she was searching for shapes too. Maybe, just once, she had seen the face of a little boy and wondered what her son looked like now.
It was a nice thought.
The clouds shifted above his eyes.
His father was even harder to imagine.
His father had been gone before he drew his first breath.
There were no memories to search through. No pictures to look at. No familiar voice hidden somewhere in the back of his mind. No fleeting image of a face or the warmth of a hand holding his.
He knew a bullet had ended his father's life. But that told him nothing about how his father had lived.
He wondered if his father had been tall. Whether he had laughed loudly or spoken quietly. Whether he liked music or enjoyed watching the clouds.
Most of all, he wondered what his father's smile had looked like. Did it look like his?
Sometimes he would study the faces of men walking past him, searching for some resemblance to the face he could never remember because he had never seen it.
He knew he would never find his father among them.
Still, he looked.
A gentle breeze moved across his face.
Searching
He looked for that elusive father figure in every new foster home.
Each time he arrived at a new house, he wondered if this would finally be the place where he belonged. A place where someone would want him, not because they had to, but because they couldn't imagine living without him.
Some homes had men who offered a friendly smile, asked about his day, or occasionally spent time with him. He watched them carefully, wondering if this was what having a father was supposed to feel like.
He didn't know. He had nothing to compare it to.
He was only five years old when he arrived at his third foster home. It was a modest house with a small backyard and a kitchen that always seemed to smell of something cooking. His new foster mother had shown him to his room, explaining where to put his clothes and when dinner would be served.
She had been nice enough. She smiled when she spoke to him and made sure he had everything he needed.
One evening, he overheard her talking in the kitchen. He recognized her voice and that of the man who lived there.
"We really can’t afford another mouth in the house," she said. "But we do need the extra eight hundred dollars a month."
He didn't understand what she meant.
He knew what a mouth was. He knew he had one, and that he needed to eat. But he couldn't understand why having another mouth in the house was a problem. There always seemed to be enough food.
And he had no idea what eight hundred dollars was worth.
He only knew that the woman didn't seem to want him there.
He tried to be good. He ate everything on his plate, even the things he didn't like. He kept his room clean and made sure his toys were put away. He thought that maybe if he didn't cause any trouble, she would be happy he was there.
But the months passed, and he was told it was time to leave.
His foster mother helped him pack his things. She told him that he had been a good boy and that another nice family was waiting for him.
He wondered why, if he had been so good, he had to leave.
The house faded into another. A different kitchen, a different bedroom, unfamiliar voices calling him to dinner. Some homes were larger, others smaller. Some had other children, while others had only the adults who took him in.
But there was never a place that felt like his own.
Some moments were nice. Like when he helped with fixing a bike.
The flashlight trembled slightly in his hand as the man leaned over the old bicycle.
"A little to the left," the man said. "There. Perfect."
He held the light steady while the man worked, handing him tools and listening as he explained what each one did.
"Think we can get it working?"
"Sure. Just needs a little work."
He smiled, already imagining the two of them riding together.
For those few hours, he felt like someone's son.
He had hoped they might finish fixing the bicycle together. Maybe the man would teach him how to ride it. Maybe they could spend more afternoons working on things in the garage.
But the bicycle was still sitting against the garage wall when it came time for him to leave.
He wondered whether the man ever finished fixing it.
As he grew older, he began to understand what he had overheard in that kitchen years before.
Eight hundred dollars.
That was what his third foster family had received each month to care for him.
He wondered how much the others had received. Was it always eight hundred dollars? Did some get more? Did some get less?
He began to measure his worth in those hundreds of dollars. The price of giving him a bed, a place at the dinner table, and a roof over his head.
He wondered what would happen if the money stopped coming.
Would anyone still want him?
By the time he was twelve, he had lived in eight different foster homes. Eight sets of adults, eight different bedrooms, and eight opportunities to believe that this time might be different.
None of the homes were bad. The families fed him, helped with schoolwork, and included him in their lives.
But eventually, he would hear those familiar words.
"It's probably better if we don't let him get too attached."
He never understood why becoming attached was a bad thing. Wasn't that what families were supposed to do?
Eventually, he stopped asking.
The voices were low, coming from the kitchen. His foster parents were talking with his caseworker.
He couldn't make out everything they were saying, but he recognized a few familiar words.
Another family. A nice place. Better for everyone.
He looked around his bedroom. A few clothes hung in the closet. Others remained folded inside his bag, tucked beneath the bed.
He pulled the bag out and placed it beside the door.
No one had told him anything yet.
Still, there were moments when he would forget. A kind word, a shared laugh, or a hand resting briefly on his shoulder could make him imagine that perhaps this family would be different.
That maybe they would ask him to stay. But the time always came when his belongings were packed and he found himself standing at another unfamiliar doorway.
Another house.
Another family.
Another chance to begin again.
He wondered how many more there would be before he was old enough to live on his own. He imagined that one day he would have his own house, where no one could tell him it was time to leave. A place where his clothes could stay in the drawers and his things could remain exactly where he left them.
And maybe there would be a dog waiting for him when he came home.
A dog that wouldn't care how much money he was worth.
The sounds of voices build around him.
The Only Friend
Indistinct voices overlapped, some raised, others hushed. Their words blended into the familiar sounds of the city. Traffic rumbled in the distance, footsteps shuffled along the pavement, and somewhere a voice rose sharply above the others.
He thinks about his schoolyard. The sounds of laughter and shouting. Children ran across the cracked pavement, chasing one another between games of basketball and tag. Small groups gathered along the chain-link fence, talking and laughing about things that seemed so important at ten years old.
He stood near the edge of the yard, watching the other children.
He had arrived at the school two weeks earlier, shortly after moving into his sixth foster home. A whole new world for him to integrate into.
He was used to being the new kid.
He knew how to keep to himself, how to avoid drawing attention, and how to wait until someone decided to include him.
Most of the time, no one did.
Then Sam arrived.
He was about the same height, with untidy brown hair and a grin that rarely disappeared from his face. He said he had just moved to the city with his family and seemed completely unconcerned about being surrounded by strangers.
Sam wandered over to where he stood.
"You play basketball?"
"A little."
"Good. Neither do I."
He looked at Sam, unsure what to make of the answer.
Sam nodded toward a group of boys playing near the fence.
"Come on. Maybe they'll let us play."
"They didn't ask us."
"They didn't tell us we couldn't."
Before he could respond, Sam was already walking toward the game.
He hesitated, then followed.
Neither boy was particularly good. Sam missed his first shot by so much that the ball bounced against the fence several feet from the basket. The other boys laughed, but Sam simply threw his arms into the air.
"That's how you pass to the fence!"
He couldn't help laughing. It felt good.
They spent the rest of recess running after the ball, missing shots, and laughing at each other's mistakes. For the first time since arriving at the school, he was disappointed when the bell rang. The days that followed brought something unfamiliar into his life.
Someone looking for him.
Sam would find him in the morning, waving him over to join a conversation or asking whether he had finished his homework. At lunchtime, Sam saved him a seat. After school, they walked together until their paths separated. They discovered that they liked many of the same things. Basketball, comic books, video games, and making fun of the ridiculous things adults sometimes said.
They argued about which superheroes were strongest and which basketball players were the greatest. Sometimes the arguments lasted for days, neither willing to admit the other might be right.
But neither stayed angry for long.
One afternoon, they sat on a low concrete wall near the school, watching the clouds drift between the tall buildings.
"That one looks like a dog," he said, pointing toward a large white cloud.
Sam tilted his head.
"Looks like a potato to me."
"A potato?"
"A big one. With ears."
He laughed.
"That's a dog!"
"Fine. A potato dog."
Sam studied the cloud for another moment.
"You should get one."
"A potato?"
"No, dummy. A dog."
"I want to. Someday."
"What kind?"
"A big one. One that follows me everywhere."
"Then you better get a big house."
He smiled, imagining the house he had thought about so many times.
"Yeah. A really big one."
"With a basketball court."
"And a pool."
"And a room just for video games."
They continued adding to the imaginary house until it became something neither could possibly afford.
It didn't matter. For those few minutes, anything seemed possible.
As the months passed, their friendship grew stronger. Sam became part of his everyday life, someone he could count on being there when he arrived at school.
He didn't have to worry about saying the wrong thing or doing something that might make Sam stop liking him.
He could just be himself. Sometimes he wondered how long it would last. He knew another foster home might be waiting somewhere in his future. Another move, another school, another collection of strangers.
One afternoon, he mentioned it to Sam.
"I might have to move again."
Sam looked up from the comic book they were sharing.
"Where?"
"Don't know."
"When?"
"Don't know that either."
Sam considered this for a moment.
"Well, you gotta tell me where you go."
"Why?"
"So I can come find you, stupid."
He smiled.
It was such a simple answer.
He had spent years wondering whether anyone would want him to stay. Now someone was telling him that even if he left, he would still be wanted. It was a feeling he didn't know quite how to describe.
But he liked it. A lot.
One Monday morning, Sam arrived at school wearing a brand-new pair of sneakers.
Bright white with blue stripes running along the sides. The soles were so clean they almost seemed to shine against the dirty pavement. Sam walked toward him with an exaggerated swagger, lifting each foot a little higher than necessary.
"Check these out!"
He looked down.
"Nice."
"Nice? That's all you got?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"Something better than nice!"
He laughed.
"Okay. They're the greatest shoes in the history of shoes."
"That's better."
Sam explained that his mother had surprised him with them over the weekend. He had wanted a pair for months, pointing them out every time they passed the store. Now they were finally his. He spent the morning carefully avoiding puddles and scuffing his feet against the pavement.
At recess, Sam refused to play basketball.
"Not getting these dirty."
"You afraid they'll stop working?"
"No. I'm afraid my mom will kill me."
They laughed.
Sam promised that by the weekend he'd be ready to try them out properly. He claimed the new shoes would make him faster, able to run circles around everyone on the court.
"Even you," he said.
"You already run faster than me."
"Then you're really in trouble."
They agreed to meet Saturday afternoon. Sam would bring his basketball. He would bring his best game. And Sam would finally prove whether his new shoes were as special as he claimed.
The school bell rang, and the boys headed back inside.
Saturday morning, he got up early to finish his chores and told his foster mother about his plans to play basketball with Sam.
"Be careful, and be home by dinner," she said.
The morning seemed made for being outside.
A shaggy dog chased a tennis ball across a small patch of grass, its owner laughing as the dog skidded past the ball and tumbled onto its side. He smiled, imagining a dog of his own doing the same thing.
Farther along, a little girl wobbled down the sidewalk on a bicycle while her father jogged beside her. She managed a few feet on her own before shouting excitedly that she could do it. Her father cheered as she proudly rang the little silver bell on her handlebars.
At the corner bakery, a young boy stood outside with his mother, holding a pastry almost as big as his face. Powdered sugar covered his nose and chin. His mother laughed as she wiped his face with her sleeve.
He smiled at the sight and continued toward the school, thinking about Sam's new shoes and how many shots they would make or miss that afternoon.
He was happier than he'd been in a long time.
But as he neared the school, he noticed a crowd gathering near the corner.
People stood close together, some speaking quietly, others trying to see past those in front of them.
He moved closer.
A restless murmur filled the street. Voices rose and fell, some sharp and demanding, others barely more than whispers. Traffic continued past the gathering crowd, while shuffling feet scraped against the pavement as people pressed closer together.
A police car was parked beside the curb. Two officers stood near a small opening in the crowd, keeping people from stepping into the street.
Something lay on the pavement.
Someone.
He recognized the brown hair first. Then the shirt.
Sam.
His friend lay motionless on the ground, one arm bent awkwardly beside his face.
Soon, a white chalk line drawn on the pavement would be all that’s left of Sam.
He stared, trying to understand what he was seeing.
Sam was supposed to be playing basketball with him. Sam was supposed to show him how fast his new shoes could run.
But the shoes were gone.
His feet were covered only by his socks.
People around him spoke in fragments.
"Someone must have wanted his sneakers."
"Bet you his shoes were taken and traded for a little bag of white powder."
He heard the words, but they didn't seem to fit together.
Shoes.
Powder.
Sam.
How could a pair of sneakers be worth more than his friend's life?
An officer stepped forward, gently telling him to move back.
But his eyes remained fixed on Sam.
He waited for Sam to move.
He didn't.
The air around him grew cold while the afternoon sun continued to shine.
Harmful words
The afternoon sun shone brightly on the row of houses lining the narrow city street. Cars were parked bumper to bumper along the curb, and the distant sounds of traffic mixed with the voices of people passing along the sidewalk.
A man stood on the front steps of a small brick house, waving to a young boy walking home from school.
"Did you learn something new today?"
The boy looked up and smiled.
"Not really."
The man laughed.
"Come on, you must have learned something. You spent the whole day in school!"
The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Nothing I can remember."
"Well, that's a shame. Maybe tomorrow."
The boy continued down the sidewalk, smiling as he approached the house next door.
He was eleven years old now, living with another foster family. The house was much like the others, with a small bedroom, a comfortable kitchen, and adults who made sure he had everything he needed.
But there was something different about this place.
The man next door.
He was a high school teacher, although he didn't work at the boy's school. He was friendly, always smiling and waving to the people who passed his house.
Every afternoon, when the boy returned from school, the man asked him the same question.
"Did you learn something new today?"
Sometimes the boy said yes. Those were the days when the man wanted to hear all about it. He listened carefully, asking questions and encouraging the boy to explain what he'd learned.
Most days, the answer was the same.
"Not really."
The man never seemed disappointed. He just smiled, shook his head, and told him there was always tomorrow.
The boy liked that.
There weren't many adults who seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say. This man didn't have to speak with him. He wasn't responsible for him, and no one paid him to ask about his day.
He just did.
One afternoon, the boy stopped to tell him about a science experiment at school. The class had made a volcano out of baking soda and vinegar, sending a stream of foaming liquid spilling over the side of a paper mountain.
The man listened with interest.
"So, what made the volcano erupt?"
"The baking soda and vinegar."
"I know that. But why?"
The boy struggled to remember the teacher's explanation.
"Something about a reaction."
"A chemical reaction?"
"Yeah! That's it!"
The man smiled.
"See? You did learn something new today."
The boy grinned.
For once, he had an answer.
The days passed, and the familiar exchange became part of his afternoon walk. Sometimes the man was watering the small patch of grass outside his house. Other times, he was collecting the mail or simply enjoying the weather on his front steps.
The boy started looking for him as he approached the block.
Then, one afternoon, a different voice filled the street.
A young girl stood outside the man's front door. She was older than the boy, with a schoolbag hanging from one shoulder.
Her face was flushed, and her voice was loud enough to carry across the sidewalk.
"You're not going to fail me again!"
The man stood in the doorway, his expression serious.
"I've explained what you need to do."
"I'll stop you and get you kicked out of the school. You don't know who you're messing with!"
She stepped backward, pointing an accusing finger at him.
"My mother will end your life!"
The girl turned sharply and hurried down the front walk.
She pulled open the driver's door of a shiny red car, threw her bag onto the passenger seat, and climbed inside.
The engine roared as she pulled away, leaving the man standing silently in his doorway.
The boy watched the car disappear around the corner.
He didn't know what had happened between them. He only knew the girl was angry, and he had never heard anyone speak to the man that way before.
As he passed the front walk, the man noticed him.
His serious expression gave way to the familiar smile.
He raised his shoulders in a small shrug.
"Learn anything new today?"
The boy looked toward the corner where the red car disappeared.
He didn't know what to say.
Instead, he shrugged his shoulders back at the man.
The man smiled again, gave a little wave, and stepped inside.
The door closed behind him.
That was the last time he spoke to the man.
The boy occasionally saw him standing behind the front window, looking out at the street. His shoulders seemed lower, and the familiar smile was gone.
The boy waved once as he passed.
The man looked in his direction but didn't wave back.
Most days, the curtains remained closed.
A few days after the girl yelled at him, words appeared spray-painted across the front of his neighbor’s house.
Large, ugly letters covered the brick beside the doorway. There were other words on the sidewalk, some that the boy knew he wasn't supposed to say.
A month after the argument, the boy was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing his homework.
His foster parents were talking quietly nearby.
"Did you hear about the man next door?" his foster mother asked.
"What about him?"
"The paper said he put his hands on her when she was over there, although there are some questions about the girl being truthful or not."
"Can you imagine? And the rest of the town believes that it's true."
"Apparently. And he was found in his tub with his wrists slit."
His foster father went quiet for a moment.
"He seemed like a nice man."
The boy stopped writing.
He looked toward the kitchen window.
The curtains were closed. No lights were on. The front steps were empty.
The man had always been nice to him. Always smiling, always asking about his school day. Now he was gone.
His pencil rested motionless against the unfinished homework.
The Eyes
He had been living in this house for a month now.
It was different from the others. His foster mother was nice, and so was her younger son. They seemed happy to have him there.
He was beginning to feel the same way.
"You're going to be late if you don't finish your breakfast," she said, placing another piece of toast on his plate.
"I'm almost done."
"You said that five minutes ago."
The younger boy sitting across from him laughed.
"He's always slow," Tony said.
"Am not."
"Are too."
Their foster mother smiled and shook her head.
"Both of you, eat."
She picked up the history notes lying beside his plate.
"Ready for your test?"
"I think so."
"Let's see." She glanced down at the paper. "What year was the Declaration of Independence signed?"
"1776."
"Good. And who was the first president?"
"George Washington."
Tony raised his hand.
"I knew that one!"
"Then why didn't you say it?" he asked.
"Because she didn't ask me."
They all laughed.
It was a small thing, sitting around a kitchen table, laughing about something that wasn't particularly funny. But he liked it.
His foster mother handed him his notes.
"You're going to do fine."
He smiled.
As he stood to leave, Tony jumped from his chair and followed him toward the door.
"Are we going to finish our spaceship when you get home?"
"Yeah. If you don't break it before then."
"I won't!"
"You said that last time."
His foster mother helped the younger boy straighten his shirt, then turned toward him.
"Come here."
She pulled him into a hug.
He was still getting used to that. Being hugged without having done something special to deserve it.
"Have a good day," she said.
"You too."
Tony wrapped his arms around both of them.
"You're squishing me," he complained.
"Good," the little boy said, squeezing harder.
His foster mother laughed and finally released them.
"All right. Off you go."
He waved as he stepped outside. He started toward school.
He had his history test first thing that morning. He thought he knew most of the answers, although there were a couple of dates he kept getting confused. Maybe he should look at his notes one more time.
But then he remembered it was pizza day.
He wondered if they would have pepperoni. Sometimes they did, but usually it was just cheese. Either way, he was looking forward to lunch.
He thought about the spaceship waiting for him at home. He liked building it with Tony, although neither of them had figured out how to make the wings stay on.
Maybe they could finish it tonight.
His thoughts returned to the history test.
Was it 1803 or 1804?
He was almost certain it was 1803.
He approached the street, still thinking about the answer.
Suddenly, tires screeched against the pavement.
A horn blared.
The street filled with chaos, noise and screams.
He lay motionless on the pavement, his backpack on the ground beside him. His books and notebooks were scattered across the road.
The boy's eyes remained open, pointing lifelessly up at the clouds drifting across the sky.
