Chapter Text
By the age of ten, Alexander had visited more foster homes than he could count on his fingers.
He never lasted long in any of them. If he had memorable moments anywhere, they certainly weren’t good ones. Between being an immigrant and being portrayed as a rebel, it was difficult for him to live with most families.
He grew up in Nevis—a tiny island in the Caribbean—until he was five. When his mother died, Alexander was sent to live with a cousin. Alexander remembered the smell of vomit. He remembered that he had recovered first and that he had gone outside to empty the bucket. When he came back, he tried to tell his mother—but she was already lying in bed, her eyes closed, her body growing colder and colder on its way to the afterlife.
His cousin committed suicide a few weeks later. He didn’t leave a note or any explanation. One day, when Alex came back from school, he found him hanging, a small stool kicked aside.
Alexander remembered shouting. He remembered stepping closer. He had seen his cousin’s cheeks streaked with tears, and his lips purple from lack of air.
He was cold when Alex found him.
His cousin’s suicide remained in his file. According to the system, this was so people would know and could adapt in the next house he was sent to—which ended up being his uncle’s home in New York.
The coexistence was difficult, to say the least. At six years old, Alexander never imagined he would be blamed for his cousin’s suicide.
Alex left that house because his uncle was no longer interested in having him around. That was also where he earned the reputation of getting into fights. He tried to explain to Seabury that the bruises weren’t from school fights, but the man refused to listen.
From then on, he had no family to turn to. He moved from foster home to foster home, although none of them were good. He went through a dozen abusive homes where adults used him, treating him either like an unpaid servant or a punching bag for their moments of anger, before finally arriving at a decent house.
Seabury told him the woman was infertile and that she and her husband wanted children anyway. Alexander didn’t want to ruin it. He behaved and didn’t repeat any of his past mistakes. He stayed as quiet as possible, taking up as little space as he could, just like he had learned with the Browns. He tried not to eat too much and took care of household chores without being told. He had learned that with the Sweeneys.
But it didn’t matter.
Apparently, the Johnsons couldn’t wait long enough to build a bond with him. Three months later, he was back in the system without understanding what he had done wrong.
His social worker had already had enough.
Seabury was the kind of man who loved his job in the worst possible way. He never allowed himself to question the system he worked for, even when a bruised Alexander stood right in front of him.
Even if Seabury didn’t believe him, even if he insisted Alex was simply going through a rebellious phase, Alex couldn’t help feeling grateful to the man for trying to make him fit somewhere one last time.
The Washingtons were his last opportunity.
Seabury had said the system was considering sending him back to an orphanage in Nevis. Alexander might only be ten years old, but if there was something he had done during the long hours he spent hiding in libraries to avoid foster homes, it was reading every book he could find.
If remembering his mother dead beside him wasn’t enough to make his stomach turn, he also knew Nevis wasn’t a good place to grow up and study. If he returned there, building a future would become twice as hard.
That was why he was determined to make the Washingtons tolerate him.
He was sitting next to Seabury on the bus. He moved his foot frantically under the seat so the man wouldn’t scold him for not staying still while he listened to another sermon about responsibility and behavior, and about how Seabury didn’t want to send him back to his country but was running out of options.
Alex repeated a list of self-imposed rules in his mind to avoid ruining things with his new foster family. If he could stay quiet and manage to concentrate, half the problem would already be solved.
Seabury started talking about the Washingtons.
Martha Washington was a nurse at the city hospital, so medical care wouldn’t be a problem. That was good. At least Alex wouldn’t have to walk around with broken bones.
Their adopted son, Gilbert, was French, so maybe they wouldn’t care about Alex being an immigrant. Although it wasn’t the same being a European immigrant as being from the Caribbean.
Finally, George Washington was the one Alex was worried about. According to Seabury, Mr. Washington had been a soldier and was now a politician. Seabury didn’t know exactly what kind, but Alex knew he was a senator because he had read it in the newspaper a few years earlier.
Alex knew better than to get him angry.
Eventually, Seabury noticed Alex wasn’t paying attention and placed a hand on his shoulder, still bruised from his last foster home. Alex flinched in pain, and Seabury pulled his hand away as if it had burned him.
They didn’t say anything.
Alex slept for the rest of the journey.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Cuando llegaron a la última parada, Seabury lo despertó, teniendo cuidado de no tocar su hombro de nuevo. Todavía no dijeron nada, pero cuando bajaron del autobús el hombre le compró papas fritas y una botella de agua.
No explicó por qué, pero Alex sabía que tenía miedo de que se fuera a la cama sin cenar.
"Thank you, sir" he murmured.
Seabury nodded and followed him to a nearby bench.
Alexander swallowed with difficulty. The snack didn’t taste bad, but there was a knot of nervousness in his throat. He finished eating and only drank a little water, saving the bottle in his bag in case the Washingtons didn’t let him go to the kitchen later.
Seabury guided him a few streets farther. Suddenly Alexander was standing in front of a large black gate, elegant without being excessive. His social worker rang the bell and the gates opened.
Alexander stayed close to him during the short walk to the front door, feeling small both because of the size of the garden and because of the adults waiting for him inside the house. It felt similar to how he had felt in most of his other foster homes.
Maybe his fear was connected to Mr. Washington’s political influence. Maybe it was because someone like him could hide whatever happened inside his house more easily than anyone before.
The front door was dark brown, with delicate carvings. Alex would have thought it beautiful if he hadn’t been so afraid of the people living inside.
There were sounds of movement inside the house, murmurs behind the door before it finally opened.
The person who greeted them was a man.
He was tall. Taller than Seabury, and definitely much taller than his last foster father.
If Mr. Howard had been able to send him back covered in bruises and with a couple of broken bones, Alex didn’t want to imagine what George Washington—whose muscles were visible even under a white shirt and a friendly smile—could do.
Alex knew better than to trust smiles.
He debated whether he should look him in the eyes or not. That was one of the rules that changed depending on the person. Some people, like Mrs. Smith, considered it disrespectful if someone didn’t look them in the eyes. Others, like Mr. Howard, considered it disrespectful to look them in the eyes, as if it showed arrogance or challenge.
From experience, Alex knew the second situation was worse than the first, so he kept his gaze on the floor, trying to remain as still as possible while tightening his fingers so he wouldn’t move his hands.
He heard Seabury laugh nervously.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Washington spoke.
"Good afternoon. I’m George."
Seabury smiled back, but Alex barely managed to stop himself from shuddering. His voice was deep and imposing. Alex couldn’t imagine being inside the house, trapped there with him. Would Mrs. Washington be the same?
He would have to be very careful in a house like this.
Seabury and Washington were talking, but Alexander wasn’t really listening. Their voices were just white noise while he stared at the tiles on the floor.
Mr. Washington noticed Alex wasn’t paying attention. Alex expected to be scolded, but the man simply gestured toward the door with a gentle smile.
"Do you want to come in? Gilbert is in the living room with my wife. It must be boring to listen to two adults talking.
Gilbert."
Alex would have to be careful with him too. He didn’t want to annoy him and make his parents angry as well.
He realized he had taken too long to answer when George’s smile faltered slightly.
"Are you oka-"
"Yes, I’m sorry" Alex interrupted. He had just interrupted an enormous man he would soon be living with. His breath caught "I’m sorry" he repeated.
Mr. Washington looked at him strangely but said nothing and stepped aside.
Alex hurried inside, hearing the beginning of Seabury’s speech behind him as he apologized to the man and began explaining the same story as always: that Alex was rebellious, violent, and would probably tell him about his latest “fight.”
Alex didn’t want to hear it again.