Fifteen kids, three instructors, countless miles of Appalachian Trail, hundreds of miles in a stinky van, and 182 miles of Georgia rivers. Hopefully this will be just one of several Stories from a Former Foster Kid that I’ll be sharing. This story takes place just after one group home, and just before my entry into foster…
Astoundingly, I was not the recipient of any electro-convulsive therapies, or even any drugs. They simply kept me there for a thirty day evaluation period, at the end of which, it was declared, by some nameless authority, that there was nothing wrong with me, and I was sent home, angry at my mother.
I positioned myself on the side of the highway with my thumb out. “I’m gonna hitch us a ride”. The first truck sped by, but when the second came, I put a little more effort forth, waving my arms about while trying to hold up my sheet. As the driver began to slow, I looked back and winked at Risa. When he stopped, I yelled above the noise and heat of the truck that we needed a ride. He said something but I couldn’t hear him.
“What??” I yelled.
He motioned with his head for me to climb up the truck to get closer. I did so and explained, still in the same volume, that my friend and I needed a ride.
“Okay, hop in.”