JG Foster - Jessie Grean: A contemporary Young Adult standalone book

All locations in this book exist. What I say about them is purely part of dramatizing the story. I invented some places within those locations to suit the following story.

All characters in this book are fictional.

Abuse

This book contains depictions of physical and verbal abuse as well as threads to characters lives.

Copyright

Copyright 2021 by JG Foster

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

M y feet carried me toward home, a room to call my own, and a mother who didn't want to be one, at least not to me. I meandered along the uneven sidewalk. A glint on the ground woke up my drooping eyes. Maybe it was my lucky day. A nugget of freedom would have been great. I kneeled. A round piece of bronze metal. Another penny. I pushed the coin with my thumb over my index finger and let it roll over the rest of my hand.

The wavelike motion swept my memory back to Jennifer Klein, my old neighbor. She gave me the bug for finding treasures on the streets. It brings you luck, shed promised. Her big smile had hammered hope into my brain on my fourth birthday. Id gulped all her words down. Why not?

Shed been like a grandma to me. The old lady was gone now. Yet her promise persisted. I gripped on this hope for a long time. I didnt even know what I hoped for anymore. Sometimes I feared my life was already over. Despite that, I pocketed the penny.

Droplets started pelting the path. Foreboding thunder rattled the dark sky. I sped up to find refuge under an overhanging branch. My quick breathing filled the space around me. The rain pounded down on the tree. Wet splotches formed on the pavement as raindrops squeezed through the leaves.

Goose bumps popped up on my arms. I watched myself shivering in the computer repair shop window opposite me. My jeans were torn on my knees and my sneakers had holes. Usually, I avoided my reflection. My appearance disturbed me. Unfortunately, other people were fascinated by the way I looked.

White spots around my eyes, mouth, and neck always drew stares. Throughout my sixteen years, my skin condition had spread across my body. My kindergarten nurse called it vitiligo. My mother never talked about it. She merely wrinkled her nose before her upper lip arched in an inverted U.

The rain stopped as quickly as it had started. The downpour created small rivers at the edges of the street. I marched on and rounded the corner to a side road. Rain-water carried a stream of plastic bottles, cups, and flattened cereal boxes down the drain.

The outside of my brown house, with its missing wood siding, broken windows, and fading paint, reflected the inside pretty accurately: disheveled and run-down. The white wooden front door creaked. As if on cue, my moms rusty voice pierced my ears.

Jessie? Is that you?

Who else would it be? escaped my mouth. I clamped my lips shut instantly. A little burst of satisfaction made me happy for a split second.

Dont smart-mouth me, my mother rattled. And get nothing wet. I just cleaned.

A one-inch-thick dust layer had accumulated above blackened scratches on wood panels. A collection of thin brown-and-white plastic grocery bags lined the hallway in front of me, leading up to the kitchen and living room. Dirty clothes, junk mail, and food packaging filled up most of the bags. A musk of rotten food emanated from emptied cans.

What are you up to now? boomed her voice.

I jetted up the stairs without answering.

You come here when Im talking to you, yelled my mother. Her heavy, plodding steps drew closer.

I stopped midlevel. She reached the bottom of the stairs surprisingly fast. Wrinkles and pimples were spread across her facial skin. Stringy, thin hair stuck to the side of her head. Her eyes sat deep in their sockets. Black and missing teeth showed every time she opened her mouth.

This five-foot-tall woman wore her pink chiffon dress, as usual. Perhaps it looked good on her at one point in her life. Now, however, the dress resembled a rag that had been dragged through the mud, burned, and beaten for the hundredth time. Luckily, we never went anywhere together. Regardless of my appearance, hers made me want to crawl under a stone.

What, Mother? I challenged.

What? she parroted. Cant you talk in whole sentences? Dont you go to school or something? I didnt finish school, but I talk better than you! You should do something for your brain.

That again. These speeches rotated in a constant cycle with nothing ever added. My mother thundered toward me.

Ouch! escaped me after her slap.

You earned it!

My cheek burned. I dashed into my room. My anger shut out my moms continued screeching. Tears drizzled out of my eyes. I hated her. I hated this place. I had nothing. I was nothing.

I curled up, lost in time. Eventually, the sadness evaporated from my veins. My focus landed on a five-gallon transparent plastic bottle full of change. I had collected the coins off the streets over the years. At first, the mountain of round metal sparked a sense of achievement in me, but the pride fled quickly. The copper, silver, and rare gold coins brought me nothing. No luck, no riches. The pit in my stomach grew. No money, no freedom.

The edge of a plastic card on my desk caught my eye. I jumped off my bed, pulled out the library card, and yanked down all the crap on my table along with it. Paper, pencils, and books covered my floor. I twisted the credit-card-sized white plastic in my hand. Blue letters read Jamaica Plain Central Library .

Mrs. Gallagher made me sign up for a card when we had a media course there. My eyes had barely stayed open during those forty-five minutes. At the end of the class, shed made us write down our favorite book titles and share them.

How had she said it? To broaden our mind, or something along those lines. I wanted to chicken out. I didnt have a damn library card, and I told her so. But I didn't think when the words came out of my mouth. She made me sign up for one on the spot, all the while telling me about the freebies that came along with it, like access to the internet and access to all books, CDs, and videos within the Boston library network.

Her words rang in my ears. A tingle twirled up my spine. An escape from this house. I booted up, hurled myself toward the door, shut it right behind me, and sprinted toward the center of Jamaica Plain.

Car exhaust mingled with bird chatter. Life and energy surrounded me as soon as I reached Armory Street. A womans metallic voice broke out over the city noises. Its unbelievable.

A mans deep voice agreed with her. I couldnt believe it either.

My eyes fixed on a computer screen behind the window of a newspaper kiosk next to me. A man with glasses, a gray mustache, and a pink polo shirt continued on the broadcast, I dont know what happened. I was just gone.

My mind reeled at all the statements. A younger woman appeared on the advertisement. Her blonde bob contrasted with her black dress. I was instantly hypnotized, she declared.

A man in heavy black and white makeup with jet-black hair, startling emerald green eyes, a black dress shirt, and black pants appeared. I am ready. Are you? Get tickets online or at TD Gardens box office.

I started walking, thinking about hypnotism until my sneakers squealed on the imitation-hardwood floor of the library. A few people raised their heads. I diverted my gaze to the young woman behind a wooden crescent-shaped table. Her brown hair touched her shimmering yellow blouse just below her shoulders. The sign on her desk read June Grand .