she grew up just like she should (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brokeforgood) wrote2021-07-07 12:23 am
brokeforgood) wrote2021-07-07 12:23 am
sometimes you stay up all night writing about a band teacher and his new foster kid
cw: emetophobia, underage drinking, sam sharpening a knife to stab nikki w
He hadn’t expected this.
While Mr. Salieri, beloved band teacher at Gershwin High signed up to be a foster parent, he didn’t actually expect it to happen. He had been on the list for so long that he had almost forgotten about it. As a busy, single man, he hadn’t exactly been at the top of the list when it came for eligible foster parents— especially not after they had realized the 18-20 hour days that he put in around the spring play. But one summer day, his phone rang—- and it was child services. They were desperate.
The girl in question had been kicked out of multiple schools, and swapped homes frequently in the past several months. They explained that they thought it would be a good match— but Salieri caught on fairly quickly to the situation. This girl was what her previous foster parents had called a lost cause, and they were hoping that his career would help the situation— both by giving her 24/7 supervision over the summer, and by using his position at the school to help convince the school to let her. He considered declining—- but then they mentioned the last special circumstance of this girl. He changed his mind.
“Bring her over.”
They’d be there in an hour and a half.
Which is how Farrah ended up on Salieri’s front door step, still half drunk, hair split into impeccable braids, chomping on her gum, super disinterested with the entire scene. As the social worker ushered her through the door, Farrah eyed the entire home— impeccable, the piano in the front room, the vintage furniture—- She turned to the social worker.
“You can’t leave me here.” She declares, and the poor, exhausted social worker can only splutter.
“Farrah, what do you—- We worked so hard to find you a place, and Mr. Salieri has so graciously accepted—“
“You can’t leave me here.” Farrah repeats, her voice set with determination.
“And why not?” The question doesn’t come from the social worker, like Farrah expected, but instead, from behind her. There he stood— the man who was to be her foster father. Farrah gives him a look— as if he’s offended her somehow, then whips back around to the social worker, like she’s the one asking the question.
“How old is this guy? He’s basically geriatric! Is he gonna die on me? And who the fuck owns a piano, and wants a foster kid?”
“Farrah—-“ The social worker starts again, looking so, so tired, when Antonio Salieri comes to her rescue.
“I still have a few years in me. And if I die on you, just think— how much trouble you can get into, before anyone realizes I’m gone!” He speaks to the girl with such wit, and dryness to his voice, that something the social worker hasn’t seen Farrah do before happens. The girl turns, and looks at the man. Then she smiles.
“But—- you’re not dying, right? Because we have to replace her if you’re dying, and I really don’t know how I’m going to do that.” The social worker pipes in. The look that Salieri gives her answers that. “Right. I’ll —- paperwork. In my car.” She bustles out the door, leaving the two alone in the house.
Salieri guides Farrah to sit in the living room, which, to her dismay, holds no television in it.
“Great. Some religious freak that doesn’t believe in tv?” She asks, rolling her eyes, and removing her gum from her mouth. Years of teaching have thankfully left Antonio with a rather impressive poker face.
“The most religious, and the freakiest. You’ll be praying twelve times a day.” He replies. She’s staring at him, trying to calculate what kind of religion this weird man with eyeliner and a piano and no television is, when he speaks again. “The television’s upstairs. I don’t typically entertain, and you were a surprise. I’ll bring it down later, and you can watch some.”
Farrah’s eyes gleam with a bit of mischief then, the slightest bit of hope that this won’t be totally awful. At least she might be able to catch up on some reality tv while she’s here, before she’s spirited away to the next home. The social worker bustles back though the door with the paperwork, and Salieri turns to her, while Farrah tries to find a place for her gum on the bottom of his coffee table. Like magic, he’s back again— holding a wastebasket out to her.
“Holy fuck. Does this guy have eyes in the back of his head?” She exclaims, again, looking at the social worker for a response.
He has to hide the smile that’s spreading across his face, by turning away. It’s a question he’s heard from many of his students before.
——
On the first night, he had to hold her braids back while she threw up in the toilet. The foolish girl had snuck a bottle of cooking wine out of the fridge and chugged it, and spent the rest of the evening vomiting. It was that same night that he’d felt the first pang in his heart.
She’d come so unexpectedly. He hadn’t had time to prepare things for her, or decorate or—- anything. Instead, she ended up in his guest room slash office. He had at least managed to clear out the spare instruments he kept in there, the endless pages of attempted compositions, but there were still shelves upon shelves of books about music theory and boxes of sheet music. She’d taken it all in, turned to him, and he was fully prepared for her complaints, or teasing. Instead, she’d asked—
“My own room?”
“Yes. Of course. It’s a little messy now, but we’ll work on it this week. Maybe some paint—-“
“Paint?”
“Whatever color you’d like.” She had a sort of mystified, and confused look drifting across her face at this point, as if he’d suggested something terribly disorienting.
“You’d let me pick the color? What if it messes the room up, makes it look bad?”
“Then you’ll have to live in a room with awful colored walls, until we can paint it again.” When she just stared at him, like he’d grown a second head, he’d just looked back at her patiently. Then he invited her downstairs for dinner.
They ate, and Farrah barely talked, because she was so busy scarfing the food down. Her table manners were atrocious, but he could tell that some of it was done specifically to try and get a rise out of him. Unfortunately for Farrah, he had worked with enough teens to be fairly competent with this kind of behavior. So, he ignored it, instead asking her questions about herself. She accused him of already knowing about her, but when he explained that he didn’t do social media, she’d quieted and dropped the topic. After dinner, he’d left her to her own devices while he finished the dishes and sat down at the piano for only just a few minutes. Long enough for the foolish young girl to get into the cooking wine. It wasn’t even good for getting drunk on, but it was enough to make her sick.
He caught her hauling ass to the bathroom. She barely made it, but didn’t manage to close the door before she started vomiting. He wasn’t sure for a minute if he should have just closed the door and left, or checked on her—- but she was having such difficulty that he surprised them both, by entering the bathroom and holding her hair back, so she at least wouldn’t have to worry about that. He further surprises her when he doesn’t scold her—- just waits until she’s done, and then hands her a clean washcloth for her face, and shows her where her toothbrush and toothpaste are. Then he returns back to the kitchen, for a glass of water and to make sure any and all alcohol is competent locked up.
When he comes back to his guest room— to Farrah’s room, she’s lying in bed groaning like she’s dying.
“Are you sending me back?” Is her first question. It makes him frown, makes him worry, makes him curse whoever made her fear that sort of thing. While she was certainly foolish for drinking old cooking wine in the fridge, it wasn’t the sort of thing to send a child away for.
“No, Farrah. I’m not sending you anywhere.” When she begins to open her mouth to protest, he speaks again, more firmly. “Yes. Im sure. How do you feel?”
“Still bad.” She confesses, closing her eyes tightly. He sets the glass of water down on her bedside table, then gently nudges her arm.
“I’ll get you a damp washcloth. Drink that, and then you can go to sleep. You’ll feel better after you rest.”
She nods, but he isn’t sure if she’ll actually listen to his instructions. But when he comes back, with both the damp washcloth, and a second glass of water for her, the first glass is drained, and she had changed into her pajamas. He replaces the glass of water, hands her the wet washcloth, and moves to pull the comforter over her.
Farrah looks at him, again, like he’s just done something completely ridiculous.
“What?” He asks, grateful again for years of teaching growing his poker face.
“What are you doing?”
“Covering you with a blanket?”
“Why?”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Yes—- but—- people don’t do that!”
“People don’t… tuck children into bed?” He asks, raising a slight brow.
Farrah falls silent. Then— “Not me.”
“Their mistake.” He says, gently. “If you need anything, my room’s across the hall. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be awake most of the night, and even if I’m asleep, it’s okay.”
Farrah falls silent.
“Do you want me to close the door, or—“
“Leave it cracked. Thanks.” She mumbles, turning her back to him. It’s only as he realizes the room that he realizes what just happened, and his heart twists.
She’d thanked him.
He hadn’t expected this.
While Mr. Salieri, beloved band teacher at Gershwin High signed up to be a foster parent, he didn’t actually expect it to happen. He had been on the list for so long that he had almost forgotten about it. As a busy, single man, he hadn’t exactly been at the top of the list when it came for eligible foster parents— especially not after they had realized the 18-20 hour days that he put in around the spring play. But one summer day, his phone rang—- and it was child services. They were desperate.
The girl in question had been kicked out of multiple schools, and swapped homes frequently in the past several months. They explained that they thought it would be a good match— but Salieri caught on fairly quickly to the situation. This girl was what her previous foster parents had called a lost cause, and they were hoping that his career would help the situation— both by giving her 24/7 supervision over the summer, and by using his position at the school to help convince the school to let her. He considered declining—- but then they mentioned the last special circumstance of this girl. He changed his mind.
“Bring her over.”
They’d be there in an hour and a half.
Which is how Farrah ended up on Salieri’s front door step, still half drunk, hair split into impeccable braids, chomping on her gum, super disinterested with the entire scene. As the social worker ushered her through the door, Farrah eyed the entire home— impeccable, the piano in the front room, the vintage furniture—- She turned to the social worker.
“You can’t leave me here.” She declares, and the poor, exhausted social worker can only splutter.
“Farrah, what do you—- We worked so hard to find you a place, and Mr. Salieri has so graciously accepted—“
“You can’t leave me here.” Farrah repeats, her voice set with determination.
“And why not?” The question doesn’t come from the social worker, like Farrah expected, but instead, from behind her. There he stood— the man who was to be her foster father. Farrah gives him a look— as if he’s offended her somehow, then whips back around to the social worker, like she’s the one asking the question.
“How old is this guy? He’s basically geriatric! Is he gonna die on me? And who the fuck owns a piano, and wants a foster kid?”
“Farrah—-“ The social worker starts again, looking so, so tired, when Antonio Salieri comes to her rescue.
“I still have a few years in me. And if I die on you, just think— how much trouble you can get into, before anyone realizes I’m gone!” He speaks to the girl with such wit, and dryness to his voice, that something the social worker hasn’t seen Farrah do before happens. The girl turns, and looks at the man. Then she smiles.
“But—- you’re not dying, right? Because we have to replace her if you’re dying, and I really don’t know how I’m going to do that.” The social worker pipes in. The look that Salieri gives her answers that. “Right. I’ll —- paperwork. In my car.” She bustles out the door, leaving the two alone in the house.
Salieri guides Farrah to sit in the living room, which, to her dismay, holds no television in it.
“Great. Some religious freak that doesn’t believe in tv?” She asks, rolling her eyes, and removing her gum from her mouth. Years of teaching have thankfully left Antonio with a rather impressive poker face.
“The most religious, and the freakiest. You’ll be praying twelve times a day.” He replies. She’s staring at him, trying to calculate what kind of religion this weird man with eyeliner and a piano and no television is, when he speaks again. “The television’s upstairs. I don’t typically entertain, and you were a surprise. I’ll bring it down later, and you can watch some.”
Farrah’s eyes gleam with a bit of mischief then, the slightest bit of hope that this won’t be totally awful. At least she might be able to catch up on some reality tv while she’s here, before she’s spirited away to the next home. The social worker bustles back though the door with the paperwork, and Salieri turns to her, while Farrah tries to find a place for her gum on the bottom of his coffee table. Like magic, he’s back again— holding a wastebasket out to her.
“Holy fuck. Does this guy have eyes in the back of his head?” She exclaims, again, looking at the social worker for a response.
He has to hide the smile that’s spreading across his face, by turning away. It’s a question he’s heard from many of his students before.
——
On the first night, he had to hold her braids back while she threw up in the toilet. The foolish girl had snuck a bottle of cooking wine out of the fridge and chugged it, and spent the rest of the evening vomiting. It was that same night that he’d felt the first pang in his heart.
She’d come so unexpectedly. He hadn’t had time to prepare things for her, or decorate or—- anything. Instead, she ended up in his guest room slash office. He had at least managed to clear out the spare instruments he kept in there, the endless pages of attempted compositions, but there were still shelves upon shelves of books about music theory and boxes of sheet music. She’d taken it all in, turned to him, and he was fully prepared for her complaints, or teasing. Instead, she’d asked—
“My own room?”
“Yes. Of course. It’s a little messy now, but we’ll work on it this week. Maybe some paint—-“
“Paint?”
“Whatever color you’d like.” She had a sort of mystified, and confused look drifting across her face at this point, as if he’d suggested something terribly disorienting.
“You’d let me pick the color? What if it messes the room up, makes it look bad?”
“Then you’ll have to live in a room with awful colored walls, until we can paint it again.” When she just stared at him, like he’d grown a second head, he’d just looked back at her patiently. Then he invited her downstairs for dinner.
They ate, and Farrah barely talked, because she was so busy scarfing the food down. Her table manners were atrocious, but he could tell that some of it was done specifically to try and get a rise out of him. Unfortunately for Farrah, he had worked with enough teens to be fairly competent with this kind of behavior. So, he ignored it, instead asking her questions about herself. She accused him of already knowing about her, but when he explained that he didn’t do social media, she’d quieted and dropped the topic. After dinner, he’d left her to her own devices while he finished the dishes and sat down at the piano for only just a few minutes. Long enough for the foolish young girl to get into the cooking wine. It wasn’t even good for getting drunk on, but it was enough to make her sick.
He caught her hauling ass to the bathroom. She barely made it, but didn’t manage to close the door before she started vomiting. He wasn’t sure for a minute if he should have just closed the door and left, or checked on her—- but she was having such difficulty that he surprised them both, by entering the bathroom and holding her hair back, so she at least wouldn’t have to worry about that. He further surprises her when he doesn’t scold her—- just waits until she’s done, and then hands her a clean washcloth for her face, and shows her where her toothbrush and toothpaste are. Then he returns back to the kitchen, for a glass of water and to make sure any and all alcohol is competent locked up.
When he comes back to his guest room— to Farrah’s room, she’s lying in bed groaning like she’s dying.
“Are you sending me back?” Is her first question. It makes him frown, makes him worry, makes him curse whoever made her fear that sort of thing. While she was certainly foolish for drinking old cooking wine in the fridge, it wasn’t the sort of thing to send a child away for.
“No, Farrah. I’m not sending you anywhere.” When she begins to open her mouth to protest, he speaks again, more firmly. “Yes. Im sure. How do you feel?”
“Still bad.” She confesses, closing her eyes tightly. He sets the glass of water down on her bedside table, then gently nudges her arm.
“I’ll get you a damp washcloth. Drink that, and then you can go to sleep. You’ll feel better after you rest.”
She nods, but he isn’t sure if she’ll actually listen to his instructions. But when he comes back, with both the damp washcloth, and a second glass of water for her, the first glass is drained, and she had changed into her pajamas. He replaces the glass of water, hands her the wet washcloth, and moves to pull the comforter over her.
Farrah looks at him, again, like he’s just done something completely ridiculous.
“What?” He asks, grateful again for years of teaching growing his poker face.
“What are you doing?”
“Covering you with a blanket?”
“Why?”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Yes—- but—- people don’t do that!”
“People don’t… tuck children into bed?” He asks, raising a slight brow.
Farrah falls silent. Then— “Not me.”
“Their mistake.” He says, gently. “If you need anything, my room’s across the hall. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be awake most of the night, and even if I’m asleep, it’s okay.”
Farrah falls silent.
“Do you want me to close the door, or—“
“Leave it cracked. Thanks.” She mumbles, turning her back to him. It’s only as he realizes the room that he realizes what just happened, and his heart twists.
She’d thanked him.