Chapter Text
I quietly pull out my notebook as Ranboo and Tubbo talk to each other quietly in the cafeteria. The room is loud and I would much rather hide in the bathroom, but it's the only free people I have to talk with my friends and you bet I’m gonna take it, even if it’s just to listen to them go on about a new video game.
“Tommy, you’re being oddly quiet today.” Tubbo says suddenly, turning to me.
“Uh oh, he’s writing a letter to you, Tubbo, you know what that means.” Ranboo says, looking over my shoulder at the ‘ Dear Tubbo ’ written in my sloppy handwriting.
The shorter boy gasps. “No! Are you getting relocated?”
When I get moved with a new foster family, they are, more often than not, not from this town, meaning I switch schools until I inevitably get kicked out for bad behavior and come back to the home.
As a foster kid, I don’t get a phone unless my family provides one, and since my average time is half a week, I go without one a lot. My only way to keep in touch with my friends is by mail, and Ranboo is part of the foster system too, so he doesn't exactly have a constant mailbox. So I have Tubbo’s address memorized. He’s equally my pen pal and my diary, happily reading whatever letters I send.
Besides, if I really needed to get a message out quickly, I bought my own computer a few years back, same with Ranboo. I could always pop into the nearest public library or McDonalds and pop open Discord. But the letters are kinda therapeutic in a way. And lord knows foster kids don’t get therapists.
“Yes and no.”
“How do you answer yes and no to getting relocated?” Ranboo raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, I’m going with another foster family. But they live in this town, so no, I’m not getting relocated.”
“When?” Tubbo asks.
“In two days, Sunday. I met my dad yesterday.”
“And?” Ranboo asks, leaning forward.
He gets it. Once you get to our age, foster families care less and less. When you're sixteen you’re no longer the cute baby a mom can boast about saving on Facebook. You’re just another cranky teen. Foster families are abusive, neglectful, and more often than not only want a foster kid for the money that comes with it.
“He seemed okay. He’s fostered two kids before, in fact, he adopted both of them. One's now in college but he stays home to commute every day and another is a senior at this school. He officially adopted them both around the same time like eight years ago.”
“Weird.” Ranboo hummed.
“I know, right?”
Tubbo glazed in between us. “Friendly reminder,” he pointed to himself. “Fortunate to have a happy biological family. No clue what’s so weird that you're hinting at. He’s fostered before and adopted them. This should be good for you, right Tommy?”
I shook my head. “But why is it sixteen year old, eight years later? He was clearly on a foster and adopted roll back then, why stop and pick back up now?”
Tubbo nodded. “I see now.”
“It doesn't really matter though, I’ll be back at home in a week. My record is four and a half hours.” I shrug, turning back to my notebook.
Even if I’ll be staying in town, I always keep a pack of stamps in my bag just in case I need to turn away from a bad house and live off-grid for a while. I can’t go to school as a runaway, it’s the first place cops look. So I keep in touch in other ways.
Right now, as you know, I’m writing from the comfort of our lunch table. I’ll be quite honest, I’m nervous for Sunday.
The foster dude seems nice. His name is Phil, single dad of a twenty-one-year-old and an eighteen-year-old.
I can already feel myself getting used as a punching bag.
That’s okay, because if that happens you know the code blue.
It’s been a while since we used code blue. Even as I rack my brain to remember, the closest even that comes up was Sapnap, and that was years ago.
That’s a good thing.
Code blue is a last resort.
The bells are gonna ring, but ofc I’ll finish this letter later.
“Thomas, this is a very nice man. Don’t fuck it up.” My social worker, Natalie, is giving me the extremely familiar speech as we drive, one I'm sure I can recite myself at this point. “Now, I know you understand but I’ll say it again. This is a temporary thing. Three months. The home was getting full and I just needed somewhere to stick you for a while. If you just so happen to get kicked out you're getting sent to a home about three hours away. And I don’t want that for you and I know you don’t want that.”
She was right, Tubbo. I didn’t want that.
But like- if this place is shitty, I’m still dipping. Besides, my worker called the last dude who fostered me ‘a very nice man’. My jaw and ribs are still bruised.
“I understand.” I shrug. I won't have to go to a different foster care if I run and don’t get caught. I may be forced to stay here but I’m not gonna like it and I sure as hell won't be nice about it.
Natalie tsks. “I have a good feeling about this one.” She said softly. “I know I say that a lot, but I feel it in my gut this time. Just try to have a good three months? If you stay locked up and defensive, nothing good will ever come.”
Does this bitch know I’ve been forced to sleep in garages and under stairs? If you stay locked up and defensive, nothing good will ever come, my ass. It’s self fucking defense.
“If even one hand is throw at me I’m fucking leaving.” I cross my arms.
“ Language, Tommy, please.” She sighs. “But I understand. If that happens, call me. I’ll pick you up. I always do.”
My social worker is a bitch sometimes, you know this. But she does truly care. I know she takes it to heart when a place doesn't work for me. She cares more than I do, if we’re being totally honest, Tubbo.
“For heaven's sakes also don't spend your whole time in that notebook of yours,” Natalie says glancing down at my lap. “I am very glad you have a constant friend as a form of rock and home base, but interacting with more than a sheet of paper would be nice.”
I shrug, glazing out the windows at the cars that pass. We’re in the nice part of the neighborhood, where the apartments are bigger and the paint jobs are newer.
Bonus to get fostered in this town? I already know all the routes.
Natalie sighs. “You have your backpack? Laptop? Stamps?”
I nudged the small black back at my feet. “Yeah.”
Natalie gave me that bag herself after my tenth foster home, three years ago. I guess she knew we were in it together for the long haul.
At this point, my plan is just house hopping till eighteen.
“Alright,” Natalie slows down in front of one of the apartments. It's a deep green, almost grey, with a kept front yard and a slightly chipping door. “We’re here.”
As I glance through the car window I can see a curtain inside the house shift on the second floor. Oh god, they were waiting for our arrival.
Well, Tubbo. Time to introduce myself to the new temporary family. I’ll add on and probably send out this letter later. I’m not too worried about the whole three months thing. My record and four and a half hours in home and I’ve survived a month alone on the streets before.
I’ll be in and out of this house, easy.
And the worst comes to worst? They have mailboxes three hours away lol.