The Orphan

         Number Fifteen rose from the yellowed grass along Oak Street in majestic, trashy magnificence.  A true testament to how years of filth and slobbery can transform beauty and nature into a twisting heap of cesspool splendor.

         Spluttering nosily, a rusted beige sedan came to a grinding halt on the dirt driveway before Number Fifteen. The engine coughed and stuttered, shooting clouds of acrid smoke into the muggy air. A large-boned, leathery-faced woman of undeterminable age squeezed her pale body out of the front seat. Her fleshy pink lips curled into a nasty smirk around the long, thin cigarette teetering on the edge of her mouth.

         The woman took one look at the house before her and broke into loud, grating gales of laughter. Her ham-sized, be-ringed fingers wrenched open the back door, grasping a thin shoulder and yanking viciously. Glee creased the woman’s florid, sweaty face when a slender girl, the second passenger, landed with a thud on the crunchy brown grass.

         Mary Perkins, the Rider County social worker, raked grubby fingers along her flushed face. Kansas’ sticky summer heat and Mary’s fidgeting combined to wilt the cosmetics coating her sagging face. Smudges of purple eye shadow and garish scarlet blush smudged together over her cake-like foundation, lending her a distinctly clownish appearance. Frizzy rings of bleached yellow hair hung in lank clumps from the woman’s tiny head. Her brilliant pink sweat pants and floral shirt stuck in wads to her heavily perspiring body. Costume jewelry hung limply from her splotchy neck. The smell drifting from her bulbous body was extremely unpleasant.

         The thin, quiet girl struggling up from the grass was a stark contrast to Mary’s moist beefiness. Eerily beautiful, Amalie Rose Inderall rose with inherent grace. Large, coffee-colored eyes dominated her fragile peaches-and-cream face. A neat braid of brown-black hair hung nearly to her waist, damp curls clinging to her face. Despite her undernourished body and second-hand clothes, Amalie held herself with elegance and poise. She was the embodiment of everything Mary Perkins wanted desperately to be. Such daily reminders of her inadequacies had fostered a deep and abiding hatred in Mary Perkins’ shriveled, bitter heart. That constant jealous hatred had culminated to bring Amalie Rose Inderall to the dilapidated shack that was to be her new foster home.

         Mary Perkins drove her beefy hand between Amalie’s thin shoulders and shoved her forwards.

         “When I first saw this place,” Mary hissed in the girl’s ear, “I knew it was perfect for you; a useless, forgotten heap of trash that no one wants. Just like you. Whenever anyone looks at you they see this: a putrid pile of rubbish. That’s all you’ll ever be; a worthless, unwanted orphan that no one could love. That’s probably why your stupid parents died…because you were such a disgusting disappointment they couldn’t bear to look at you for one…more…day.”

         Amalie felt the woman’s heavy breath on her neck, gagged at the smell flowing from her putrescent mouth. Breathing shallow sips of air through her mouth, Amalie clenched her bony fists, humming Benny Goodman’s Stardust in her head to drown out her hateful words. Forcing an indifferent expression on her face, Amalie wrenched free of the mammoth’s hold and asked coldly,

         “Are you done yet? Or would you like to stand here and see how long it takes for that war paint to melt off your face completely?”

         Complete silence followed. Mary Perkins’ already swarthy faced flamed scarlet, her beady eyes narrowing to slits, the cigarette trembling on her white lips from rage. Amalie smiled sweetly up at her. It pushed the social worker over the edge.

A sharp, sickening crack split the silence. Blackness hovered at the edges of Amalie’s vision when she felt every ounce of Mary’s two hundred and seventy-five fleshy pounds backhand her across the face. She hit the ground with a dull thud. An explosion of pain raced upwards from her ankle, which had refused to turn as the rest of her body had. Curling in on herself for protection when she glimpsed Mary’s fat foot lift to land a kick on her ribs, Amalie squeezed her eyes shut and felt…nothing.

Amalie vaguely heard the slam of a door opening, and heavy footsteps on the tilted, splintered porch hanging from her new home. Glad for the respite, Amalie sprung to her feet, lurching awkwardly towards the dilapidated house and ancient, grizzled old woman standing, arms crossed, in front of the door.

“Who the hell are you?”

The old woman, voice gravely from smoking, plucked Amalie forward by her collar with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Well?” She demanded curtly.

“Amalie Rose Inderall, Ma’am. The foster child…” Amalie trailed off uncertainly.

“You!” The old woman barked in Mary’s general direction, “Hefty girl. You the social worker?”

Amalie choked back a laugh at the woman’s description and watched expectantly as Mary’s mottled face flamed anew. Mary drew herself up, shoulder’s back, to all of her five feet two inches,

“Yes. I’m Mary Perkins from—”

“Well what the hell you dressed as a clown for? Don’t you have any pride, woman?” The old woman’s strong, bony fingers dug into Amalie’s shoulder, “And what the hell were you doin’ knockin’ this little bird around for? Didn’t your Mama teach you manners? You should be ashamed!”

Mary spluttered, her puffy lips opening and closing like a fish, “Excuse me! I’ll have you know—!”

The old woman snorted, “Know? You don’t even know how to dress yourself, Hefty. Why don’t use just squeeze yourself back in that clown car of yours and nip off.” Watching as Mary’s mouth worked soundlessly, the old woman nodded approvingly, “Got nothing else to say, Hefty? Good. Get off my property.”

Without waiting for any further replies, the old woman turned around and drug Amalie towards the crooked door.

“Come along, Birdie. I’ll show you to your room.”

Amalie allowed herself to be pulled into the dark recesses of the sorry looking house, a huge smile splitting her face, the pain across her cheek all but forgotten. The house looked like a palace to her, and that grizzled old woman a beneficent queen.