Mrs. Peterson has anger issues!
“Wake up,” a familiar voice calls out. Before opening my eyes, a cold hand rips the blankets off the bed, exposing me to the bare wall. The woman repeats her action to the girl above me. The hidden face above me sighs and shifts, moving the bed with her.
At the orphanage, kids are here one day and gone another.
“Wake up!” Mrs. Peterson yells while she yanks her gray, greasy, short hair in a ponytail “The chore list is in the cafeteria. Oh, and if I see y’all still in the bunks when I come back there will be a punishment,”Mrs. Peterson threatened. I’ve lived at this orphanage since I was seven and never stuck around long enough to find out what the punishment is.
Mrs. Peterson has been working at this orphanage since I got here, and I can say from experience that Mrs. Peterson has some serious anger issues, so I never try to get on her bad side.
Ever since the incident at my last foster home, Mrs. Peterson is constantly striving to find a way to annoy me.
I’ve only been to one foster home my entire life. When I moved to my first foster home, I was too young to understand the concept. Nobody was explaining to me why I was going to a stranger’s apartment. Everyone just kept on telling me that I’m staying with a woman and her 12-year-old daughter for a while.
My parents died in a car crash when I was seven and I have little to no memory of them. At that moment I didn’t know what happened to my parents yet, so I had a hard time settling in. Even if I don’t remember them now, I brought photos of me and my parents to the shelter. After an incident at that foster care, I didn’t get invited to another home.
The orphanage taught me everything I know. Of course, I’ve never gone to school, but I learned how to cook, clean, and use necessities. A loud knock disrupts my thoughts.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Peterson’s adorable son Jack, peeped through the door. “My mom wants to speak to you at the front desk,” He remarked quietly. “Tell them I’m coming” I replied. Why would Mrs. Peterson want me? Probably to blame me for one of her problems!
Walking through the halls, kids are already beginning on their chores ranging from sweeping the hallways to taking out the trash. The other half are in the cafeteria eating their breakfast of cereal or stale biscuits and chocolate milk or water.
Walking, to the front desk, I catch Mrs. Peterson waving me over to where she stood. “Your son said that you called me here, ” I said my voicé barely above a whisper. There was an awkward silence that gives me the courage to look at Mrs. Peterson. She’s looking at me with a devious smile that looks like the same look when somebody forgets to do their chores. She then bends down to my level and whispers to me “Today’s your lucky day Iris,” grabs my wrist and scurried me to the outside of the building where visitors wait.