Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“So you know that I might know a little something about being new, right?”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I nodded, just happy that he was talking to me. I always felt safe when Creighton was talking to me. Eight. He told me I could call him that, but I was only going to do that in private, even though I slipped up and said it in front of his friends just now. I needed to remember. A couple other times when I called him that name in front of some of the other foster kids, they all gave me nasty looks. One of the girls cut up my favorite shirt.
They were jealous.
“Okay then.” He knelt down so he was facing me, real serious.
I turned to face him too. We were almost equal height this way.
“This is what you do. When you walk in there, you walk in already knowing that you belong there because you belong anywhere and everywhere you go. You hear me?” He gently tapped under my chin. “Head up. Shoulders back. You own your space. No one takes that from you. And if you think you don’t belong somewhere or the other kids don’t want you there, fuck ’em because you do.”
I reeled a little inside, but didn’t show it. Creighton had said enough bad words at the house, so I knew it was just how he spoke, but I couldn’t believe he got away with all that cursing.
I wasn’t going to correct him.
He stood, still watching me, still all serious. “You got it?”
I nodded.
He chuckled softly before knocking his fist to my shoulder, softly, before going past me. “You got this, Little Blake. Have a badass day.”
I watched as his friends greeted him and the whole group kept moving, jostling each other and joking. A few glanced back at me until they turned the corner.
“Bye, Eight,” I whispered to myself before I did what he said.
Head up. Shoulders back. I was going to own my space, whatever that meant.
Chapter Five
Blake
Cognitive psychology. Was. Awesome.
I’d known within the first week it was going to be my favorite class and that realization never changed. It only strengthened. Learning about the mind and how it affects thinking, problem-solving, and how people learn new information was fascinating to me. Granted, I had a personal stake in understanding the mind, but it was still such a complex study.
I loved it.
“Blake?”
We’d just finished for the day, finished for the week actually, and I was packing my things away when the professor called my name. “Yeah?”
Dr. Langen motioned for me. “Do you have time for a quick chat?”
“Oh.” I frowned. There were very few adults I was comfortable around and even fewer that I enjoyed. I’d begun to enjoy this professor, but I knew that could change at the drop of a hat. I was loath for that to go away, and talking with her one-on-one was a window opening for that to happen. I’d only met two adults who turned out to be stand-up through and through. My first social worker and Miss Marcie. I doubted this professor was also one of them, but with a tight smile, I gave a nod. “Sure.” Standing up, I grabbed my bag and shrugged it on.
She was a thin woman, with short black and gray hair, cut similar to a boy’s haircut. She had a propensity for wearing thick red glasses, long baggy skirts, and sweaters. The sweaters and skirts were always brightly colored, and they never matched. Today she was wearing a green neon skirt that went all the way to the ground with an orange fuzzy sweater. A brooch was always pinned to the top right corner of her sweater. A metallic unicorn with some diamonds attached. It was pretty, but odd looking. Though, I was starting to enjoy her various outfits. I knew some of the guys laughed about them, and I’d heard a fraternity had her different outfits made into a drinking game. I didn’t know the details. I didn’t want to know.
She motioned for the door. “Walk and talk with me?”
That made me even more tense. “Uh. Sure.”
She waited until we stepped out into the hallway. “I’ve been impressed with the papers you’ve turned in so far.”
“You have?” My head popped up. “I mean, that’s great.” We’d only turned in three smaller ones. She might change her mind when our midterm paper was due.
“And I’m sorry.” She paused, touching my arm. “Can I go personal with you?”
No.
That was my automatic answer, but I just smiled tightly again and prepared myself. “Sure.”
She relaxed, her own smile widening. “Good because I wanted to bring up your entry essay. I read it.”
My stomach dipped. “I didn’t know faculty could read those.”
“We can, if we request to see it. Sometimes we do if we think it might give us further insight into a student. Which is why I asked to read yours. I meant it when I said I’ve been impressed with your essays. What you have to say, the insight you have, it’s postgraduate-level work, to be honest. I wondered if you had personal experience in some of the things you’ve been writing about, and I read that you were in the foster system.”