The Boy Who Needed Someone & Other Stories

By Teresa D. Patterson

The Boy Who Needed Someone is a collaboration of short stories by the author. These stories touch on subjects such as spousal abuse, HIV, self-esteem issues, etc.

The Boy Who Needed Someone – Mrs. Beatrice Booker is hesitant to take in another foster child at her age. Over the years, the children have become unruly, disrespectful and just plain evil, in her opinion. Will Chris, a boy who clearly needs love, change her mind?

Christmas Morning – Velma Stevenson’s life is changed when a teenager tries to steal her purse one harsh winter day.

Too Much Love – Constance makes a decision to finally leave her abusive husband. Can she stick to it this time?

Office Grapevine – They thought that Avia Johnson slept her way to the top. If only they knew the truth, would it change things?

In the Shadows of Marcus – Robert Russell has been estranged from his family for years when he receives an urgent letter: “Marcus is dying. Please come home.”

The Power in Words – An emotionally scarred woman faces her demons when she returns home for her father’s funeral.

Making Up For Lost Time – A young teen tries to honor his mother’s dying request and get to know his absentee father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teresa D. Patterson
• Release date: Aug 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476381411

Teresa D. Patterson

Teresa D. Patterson came onto the literary scene with her debut novel, Project Queen, which was published by a small independent publishing company. It wasn't long before she realized having complete control over the creation and distribution of her books suited her better, compelling her to publish her own future works.Her first independent published novel was Ex-boyfriend. She went on to write several novels in multiple genres, which includes contemporary fiction, erotica, inspirational fiction, juvenile fiction, romance, and urban lit. She has written twenty-eight novels and co-authored one.

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The Boy Who Need Someone & Other Stories

Teresa D. Patterson

Copyright 2012 by Teresa D. Patterson

Published by Edit Again Publications at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Boy Who Needed Someone

(Chris’s Version)

The moment I see her, I know I won’t like her. She is old, real old; all wrinkled up like a prune, like someone forgot to iron her out. I don’t dislike her just because she’s old, though. It’s something else. She has a certain look in her eyes. Behind the bifocals that she’s wearing, they are penetrating. They seem to be able to look straight to my soul. I feel exposed and I don’t like it.

Ms. Booker, this is the young man who will be living with you for the next six weeks, the social worker tells her. Her facial expression doesn’t change as she continues to stare at me. Her eyelids don’t even blink. I feel uncomfortable so I look down at my shoes.

Ms. Beatrice Booker is my name, young man. You will call me Ms. Bea. I’m pleased to meet you. And look at me when I’m speaking, she says in a tone demanding to be obeyed.

My head snaps up and I glare at her defiantly. I don’t say anything. It will only cause trouble anyway. I’m escorted up the steps of a moderate-sized, two-story brick home.

Sit in the living room and don’t touch anything, my caseworker instructs; like I’m a little kid or something. Maybe I don’t feel like sitting in the living room. Maybe she should ask me if I want to sit down. Nobody ever asks me anything. They just tell me.

So, I don’t sit down. Instead, I go over to where the old lady has a nice-looking flower arrangement. I stare at them and feel a twinge in my chest. They’re the same kind of lilies that were at my father’s funeral.

If someone bothered to ask me whether or not I want to stay with some hawk-looking, old, wrinkled up lady, I’ll tell them where I’d like to put my foot.

They talk right over me sometimes. Am I deaf or invisible?

At least this time they’re discussing me in another room where I can’t hear them. I guess I should be grateful for that small amount of consideration. Frankly, I’m tired of hearing their opinions.

Truant-

Disruptive-

Insubordinate-

Extremely hostile-

Angry-

It all adds up to the same thing to me: No one wants to be bothered with this troubled delinquent.

So, if they’d asked me, I would have told them to send me back to the juvenile detention center, to the runaway shelter; anywhere except here. It will save Ms. Bea a whole bunch of trouble and heartache. I’m sure she’ll be calling Foster Services to come back to get me soon, anyway. Homes never last for long.

I'm mad! I’m mad at my caseworker, at my father for dying, and at that old lady for pretending to want me in her home. I’m mad at the whole world, especially at my mother.

So, I see you like flowers. Her voice startles me. My fingers stop in mid-motion and I know I have a guilty look on my face.

I didn’t know why I did it. I wasn’t even aware that I had done anything until I look down. It was as though something had possessed me and I had plucked all of the petals off the flowers. Now, several stems, bare and pitiful-looking, protrude out of the dirt in the flowerpot.

That’s all she says about the flowers; nothing more. She stares at me long and hard. The eyes behind the spectacles are unblinking. I wonder what’s on her mind.

I take it you’re tired from your trip? I don’t bother to answer because I’m used to the foster parents not listening. I’ll show you to your room.

I follow her up the stairs, noticing the portraits on the wall. I guess the people are her ancestors. They all have sharp, hawk-like features. I can see where she got her looks.

My temporary room is nice. As long as there’s a bed and a TV, any room is nice to me. I go in and close the door, not saying a word. What should I say?

Even though me and the old lady didn’t hit it off so good, I think I’ll give it a try. Six weeks isn’t all that long. I guess I can deal with it. After all, I only have to put up with one, old lady. There are no other kids to fight and argue with. I’ll be able to stay out of trouble. I know I won’t ever touch her flowers again.

I wake up in the strange surroundings. Like so many times before I feel afraid. I wonder where I am and it takes me a while to remember.

Then, I see her. It scares me so bad that I jump and hit my head on the bedpost. Damn old lady! Can’t you knock? I explode.

You were crying out in your sleep. I was concerned, she says in this quiet, soft-spoken tone. It makes me feel ashamed for losing my temper. It’s not her fault that I’m afraid at night.

I turn my face towards the wall, ignoring her. Seconds later, I hear her footsteps retreating down the hall. A door opens then closes. She’s gone.

I finally exhale.

I lay there for a long time. I can’t sleep. I don’t want to think. I’m forcing myself to be void of all feelings. Still, the pain engulfs me.

The next morning I have to face her again. She seems unchangeable; with her crisp, freshly pressed dress, beige stockings and nursing shoes. Not a hair in her wig is out of place.

I feel underdressed in my baggy jeans and wrinkled Malcolm X tee shirt. I hurry and sit down at the table, taking the chair directly across from her.

Take your hat off at the breakfast table, young man, she commands. I bite back my words, but only because I’m hungry. At other places, if I got sassy with the foster parents, they would refuse to let me eat. It’s too early in the morning to test her.

Ms. Bea bows her head and says a silent prayer. Then we begin to eat.

So, tell me, what are your goals? she surprises me by asking.

G-goals? I stop chewing and just gawk at her.

Yes, you know, achievements that you set for yourself, she replies to my dumbfounded expression.

Well, I don’t know. I guess I ain’t got no goals.

Don’t have any, she corrects. I thought that was what you said. But what do you mean by that, young man? She is staring at me again, with those eyes.

"I meant what I said, I ain’t got no goals, I say sarcastically. Unless you count dropping out of school," I add.

I meant what I said too, she states matter-of-factly. I said a goal is an achievement. Do you feel that dropping out of school is an achievement?

When put like that, I guess it isn’t. But, who is she anyway? When I turn sixteen, I’ll be legally able to drop out of school if I want.

I guess not, I mumble. But, I’m going to do it anyway. I don’t like school and they don’t like me, I blurt out.

Education is important. She eyes my tee shirt critically. I see you’re wearing a Malcolm X shirt, there. You even know who he was? I have no answer. I just shake my head. Why don’t you like school? she asks next, interrupting me from spooning eggs into my mouth. I wish she’d just let me eat and stop asking so many questions.

Because I don’t like the classes they placed me in. They’re stupid!

You think your classes are stupid? Why?

Because- Boy, she is so nosey! I look down at my almost empty plate. The room is completely silent. I sense that she wants to hear my honest response. For some reason, I feel like telling her the truth, this woman, who can read my soul. "Well, they put me in those SLD classes. That's for kids who have learning disabilities. I