As she rides up, she lets herself fall into the daydream of a morning in the Pierces’ home. Having breakfast with them. Being dropped off before they head to work, wherever that is. Unlike her fellow students, she wouldn’t fight off any hugs or kisses or whatever form of affection they’d like to give her. She’d savor it, and probably end up late to class for it repeatedly.
A loud screech from behind jerks her out of her fantasy, and she looks over her shoulder just in time to see a shiny silver Mercedes rapidly coming toward her, frantically attempting to swerve. She hastily tries to steer out of harm’s way as the driver blares the horn. The bike topples over and Brielle crashes against the curb.
The Mercedes slams to a halt and the passenger window slides down.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Ride your bike on the sidewalk like a normal person!” Cassandra Sinclair yells at her from the driver’s seat, her cell phone firmly in one hand propped above the steering wheel.
“The sidewalk is for pedestrians,” Brielle yells back. “Maybe if you weren’t on your phone all the time, you’d see when you’re about to run someone over!” But her words are wasted, as Cassandra rolls up the window and speeds into the parking lot.
Brielle pushes herself up, the action making her realize that her palms are scraped and her favorite pair of jeans ripped at the knee. Great. So much for making a good impression.
The first bell rings, and Brielle pushes her bike to the stand to lock it in place. At least it made it through with less damage than she did. She knows she should get to class, but she’s not going to let Cassandra get away with almost killing her that easily. That girl is the definition of a spoiled brat, and more people need to stand up to her.
Cassandra gets out of her car, and Brielle stomps toward her.
“You do realize that you almost flattened me,” Brielle accuses.
Cassandra rolls her expertly mascara-ed blue eyes and slings her purse over her shoulder, her perfect golden curls falling around her beautiful doll face like a lion’s mane. Then she fixes a sneer on Brielle, looking like a feral cat about to strike.
“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re fine, aren’t you?” she retorts. “Besides, if you were driving a car instead of a bike like a normal person, that wouldn’t have happened.” She tilts her head and pouts her glossed lips. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have parents to buy you one.”
Brielle’s hands ball into fists. Cassandra loves to remind her that she’s still an orphan. The irony is, Cassandra used to be one, too, at the same orphanage. It’s hard to believe now, but they used to be good friends.
Before Cassandra got adopted.
Brielle lets Cassandra pass, muttering only to herself, “I guess the grass isn’t always greener on the family side of the fence.” She shakes her head, feeling sorry for her former friend. There are worse things than being an orphan.
The second bell rings, and Brielle tries to shake the bitter taste of the altercation as she rushes to class.
Her first period is English. Mr. Brown begins to read Macbeth, and his monotone soon lulls half the class to sleep. But Brielle has too much going through her mind to either sleep or listen to the story. With the parental visit this afternoon, and the confrontation with Cassandra, she can’t keep the memories from invading her mind.
They were eleven, all primped up for the annual Meet and Greet. The Sinclairs had turned up. Sister Agatha had said they were rich and prominent. Brielle had no idea what that second word meant, but she knew it was a good thing from Sister Agatha's tone. At first sight, they were beautiful, like the bride and groom on top of a wedding cake. But up close, even at eleven she could see that they were just as plastic, and just as hollow.
They’d asked to take a stroll through the garden with Brielle, and she was so excited at the prospect of a family that she eagerly agreed. Mr. Sinclair was charming and well-dressed, and Mrs. Sinclair looked like a supermodel, with fine glittering jewelry hanging from her ears and around her neck.
But as soon as Brielle got close, it happened.
Horrible images flashed in her mind. Mr. Sinclair beating one woman after another. Brielle saw it all from his youth to now in a flood of brutal scenes. The first time he hit his high school girlfriend. Then college girlfriends. Worst of all was the stripper he’d left for dead on a bender in Vegas.
Brielle returned to reality with a gasp, hopping away from Mr. Sinclair as if he were about to strike her next. What would happen to her if he adopted her?
She knew in that moment, no matter how badly she wanted a family, she couldn’t go with him. She somehow knew that he had yet to hit his new wife, but abuse was his addiction, and it was only a matter of time.
The most disgusting part about it was that guilt wasn’t the only alien emotion assaulting her, but so too was satisfaction and urgency. Mr. Sinclair enjoyed hurting women, got a thrill from seeing the fear in their eyes before his fist came down.
Brielle felt all of it inside her, and it made her physically ill. She couldn’t keep it in, not just because it affected her so terribly, but because Mrs. Sinclair deserved to know what she was in for.
Still shaking from the vision, she’d grabbed Mrs. Sinclair’s wrist and, right there in the middle of the rose garden, pleaded, “Get as far away from this man as you can. He’ll hurt you.”
Mrs. Sinclair’s mannequin smile faded, confusion barely pinching her botoxed face. “I beg your pardon?”
“What are you talking about, girl?” Mr. Sinclair’s charming façade melted, an edge in his voice feeling like a threat.
Brielle couldn’t take it. The guilt and shameful glee and need overwhelmed her, coupled with her own fear and desperation to prevent future brutality. Tears streamed down her face as she turned on Mr. Sinclair, her vision blurring.
“How could you?” she cried. “What kind of person could enjoy hurting others like that? Especially those who trust you and care about you? If you adopt me, will you beat me, too?”
Mr. Sinclair’s face was a mask, but Brielle could see the terror and rage in his eyes. He looked at his wife, whose concern and confusion were evident in her wide gaze. Grasping her arms, his face had softened. “Darling, I assure you, I have no idea what this girl’s talking about.”
Sister Agatha strolled toward them, her smile faltering as she approached. “Is everything alright here?”
“What sort of orphanage are you running, Sister?” Mr. Sinclair barked. “I thought I’d have better luck finding a respectable child at an old-fashioned orphanage than a group home, but your kids seem to be just as perverse.”
Sister Agatha looked at Brielle, who was frantically shaking her head in denial, and her thick brow furrowed in concern. “What happened?”
Mr. Sinclair straightened his shoulders and adjusted his tie. “This girl accused me of doing terrible things to women. I shudder to think how she even knows of such things. If you have no more wholesome young girls at this institution, I don’t think—”
“Slow down, Mr. Sinclair,” Sister Agatha cut him off. “While I can’t account for whatever Brielle said without further investigation, I can assure you that we raise these children with the utmost care and discipline. If adoption is truly something you want to pursue, I can’t in good conscience let you leave without at least speaking with some of the other girls in need of a good home.”