Chapter One
Glitter was a menace. It had migrated from the nail polish bottle to the comforter, the carpet, and somehow Casey’s elbow.
“You’re banned,” Emily announced, squinting at Casey’s left hand. “Absolutely banned. You’ve weaponized sparkle.”
Casey held her fingers up palms out. “Excuse you. This is precision work. Michelangelo would’ve used glitter if he’d had access.”
Emily snorted and flicked a speck of glitter off her blanket. “Michelangelo painted ceilings.”
“And I,” Casey blew on her nails, “paint dreams.”
That earned her a pillow to the shoulder.
They were cross-legged in the middle of Emily’s bed, bottles scattered between them - pink, peach, and something glaringly neon. Music played softly from Emily’s phone, some pop song about revenge and lip gloss.
The door was half closed, never shut, never locked.
Casey liked this part. The normal part. Where no one thought it was strange for her to know how to keep polish inside the lines. The part where Emily shoved her foot into her lap and said, “Fix this,” like it was obvious she would. It wasn’t really about the polish. It was the feeling of getting something right.
“Your hands are so steady. You could do this professionally.” Emily wiggled her toes.
“Stop moving or you’re going to look like a toddler did it.”
Emily leaned back on her elbows, studying Casey’s face. “You’d make such a pretty girl, you know.”
The brush paused for half a second. Casey didn’t look up. “Tragic. I guess the world will never know.”
Emily shrugged, still watching her. “I’m serious. You’ve got the lashes for it.”
Casey rolled her eyes, but heat crept up her neck anyway. “Focus on your cuticles, Em. They’re offensive.” She joked because that was easier than asking why the words felt true.
Emily laughed again, loud and unfiltered. And that was the exact moment the door swung fully open.
The music kept playing, the glitter caught the light like it was proud of itself.
Mrs. Donnelly stood in the doorway, grocery bags hooked over one arm. Her eyes moved from Emily’s bare legs to Casey’s hand wrapped around her daughter’s foot. To the polish. To the bed.
The temperature seemed to drop without warning.
Emily sat up. “We’re just doing nails.”
Mrs. Donnelly squeezed the grocery bag tight, causing the eggs to crack. “I can see that.”
Casey slowly set Emily’s foot down and capped the bottle. Because that was what you did when something was over.
Mrs. Donnelly’s gaze landed on Casey’s hands. Pink. Glittering. Perfectly applied. Something unreadable flickered across her face. “Casey,” she said carefully. “Can you come downstairs, please?”
There it was. The tone. The one that meant this wasn’t about nail polish.
Emily looked between them. “It’s literally just nails, Mom.”
Mrs. Donnelly didn’t take her eyes off Casey. “Downstairs. Now.”
Casey slid off the bed, glitter clung to her jeans as she stood. She resisted the urge to brush it off. It felt like erasing a piece of herself. Tiny, harmless, yet still somehow too much.
The kitchen smelled like spaghetti sauce and something burning slightly at the edges.
Mrs. Donnelly set the grocery bags down harder than necessary. “Sit,” she said.
Casey sat. Hands folded neatly in her lap. Pink glitter flashing under the overhead light like it was mocking her.
Mrs. Donnelly didn’t yell. That would’ve been easier. Instead she crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “I welcomed you into this home,” she began. “We have rules. Clear rules.”
Casey nodded once. Rules were easy. Rules were predictable.
“No boys in Emily’s bedroom with the door closed.”
“It wasn’t closed,” Casey said quietly. “It was…”
“Don’t argue semantics with me,” Mrs. Donnelly’s hand hit the counter.
Casey swallowed the rest of the sentence.
Mrs. Donnelly’s gaze dropped to Casey’s hands again. “And this,” she added, a disgusted look passing over her face.
Casey looked down too. The polish had dried smooth and glossy. Emily had actually done a good job.
“It’s just nail polish.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not appropriate.”
There it was. That word. Appropriate.
Casey had learned it meant: We don’t like this. We don’t understand this. We don’t want to explain this. It never meant wrong in a way she could fix. Just wrong in a way other people could punish.
She picked at a chip in the polish. “It was Emily’s idea.” Sometimes deflection worked.
Mrs. Donnelly straightened her back and smacked the counter. “This isn’t about Emily!”
It never was.
“I can’t have my daughter in situations that could be misunderstood.”
Casey’s jaw tightened. Misunderstood by who. They were painting nails. Not plotting a crime.
“I’m calling Janie,” Mrs. Donnelly said.
The words landed flat. Not shocking, just familiar.
She nodded once. “Okay.”
Mrs. Donnelly blinked, almost thrown by the lack of protest. “Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She didn’t ask to stay. Didn’t explain. Didn’t plead. Experience had taught her something important: When a foster parent said they were calling the caseworker, the decision was already made.
An hour later, Janie’s sedan pulled into the driveway.
Emily tried to argue. “It’s literally nail polish, Mom!”
But Casey was already in her room. Backpack open, essentials inside. A picture of her and her mom, a notebook, the small makeup pouch she wasn’t supposed to have, and the hoodie she liked best.
She’d learned early: Always pack like you won’t be back. Hope made moving harder. She tried not to carry it from house to house.
By the time Janie knocked softly on the doorframe, Casey was sitting on the edge of the bed, glitter still clinging stubbornly to her fingers.
Janie took one look at the scene and sighed. “What happened?”
She held up her hands.
Janie blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
From downstairs, Mrs. Donnelly’s voice floated up. “It’s not acceptable for a teenage boy to be in my daughter’s bedroom unsupervised.”
Janie’s mouth tightened.
“She was painting my nails,” Casey called back evenly. “They look great, by the way.”
Emily made a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob.
Janie stepped further into the room, lowering her voice. “I’m sorry, Case.”
Casey shrugged. “I figured.”
Janie looked at the glitter again. “You want remover?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. It’s pretty.”
That made Janie’s expression soften in a way Casey didn’t want to look at too closely. Kindness was dangerous when you didn’t know how long it would last.
“Okay,” Janie said quietly. “Let’s go.”
The passenger door shut with a familiar thud. Janie didn’t start the car right away. She adjusted the rearview mirror instead, even though there was nothing behind them but a trimmed hedge and a minivan.
“They said you were in her room,” Janie said finally.
Casey glanced up at the clouds. “I was.”
“With the door closed.”
She shook her head slowly. “It wasn’t closed; it was cracked. We know better than to close doors.”
Janie huffed out something that might’ve been the ghost of a laugh. “And the nail polish?”
Casey held her hands up again, turning them slightly so the glitter caught the late afternoon light. “It’s good glitter,” she said. “Not the chunky kind.”
Janie stared at her hands for a second longer than necessary. “She said she was worried about appearances,” Janie said carefully.
“Of course she was.” Casey turned toward the window before Janie could read too much in her face.
The neighborhood was painfully normal. Basketball hoop in one driveway. Wind chimes in another. She wondered how long before Emily’s polish chipped.
Janie finally put the car in reverse. “You want to tell me what actually happened?”
“We painted nails. We listened to music. She said I’d make a pretty girl.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Silence filled the car.
She wished she could reach out and shove the sentence back into her mouth. Not because it wasn’t true. Because it might be.
Janie didn’t respond immediately. She just drove. After a moment, she said, “And how’d that make you feel?”
Her jaw tightened. “It was a joke.”
Janie glanced over quickly. “That’s not what I asked.”
Casey stared at her reflection in the window. The man bun, the hoodie, the glitter. “I don’t know,” she muttered. That wasn’t entirely true. She just didn’t have language big enough for it yet.
Janie nodded slowly. She didn’t push.
Casey appreciated that. Most adults either demanded explanations or delivered lectures. Janie just… collected information.
“Just put me in a group home,” she muttered after a few blocks.
Janie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No.”
She picked at a thread on her jeans. “It’s easier.”
“For who?”
“For everyone.”
Janie shot her a look. “You don’t get demoted to a group home because a foster parent panicked over nail polish.”
Casey shrugged. “They’re not lining up for teenage boys, Janie. We both know that.”
The word sat wrong in her mouth. Boys. Like a shirt with someone else’s name stitched over the pocket.
Janie didn’t correct it. She didn’t agree either. She just sighed. “I have another placement.The Patricks.”
Casey let her head fall back against the seat. “Do they have teenage girls?”
“No.”
Relief flickered across her face before she could stop it.
“Just you and a five-year-old they’re fostering. They usually take younger kids.”
“So, I’m a charity case.”
“You’re not a charity case.”
She stared at the ceiling of the car. “Do they care about appearances?”
Janie glanced at her again. “I think they care about structure.”
That wasn’t an answer, but it was close enough. Casey exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
Janie nodded once and drove.
