Read Compromised for Free Online

burns from the spill in chemistry. I was helping Mr. Hunter organize the lab and dropped some nasty bhut jolokia pepper oil on my hand. I had to run my fingers under water and milk, but the tingling is still there. Now my lip hurts from where I bit down on my nail. Stupid. And I ran out of milk.
    This time Beulah looks gray. Not beige. She sucks in her sallow cheeks when she sees me. One of Principal Kinne’sfluorescent lights sputters and dies. We sit in the shadows while the janitor works to replace the bulb.
    Beulah hands me a piece of paper. “The State of Nevada is beginning the process to terminate your father’s parental rights based on the long-term deficiency of his parental duties.”
    No one speaks.
    The school counselors squirm in their chairs. Awkward, really. Star student. Felon father. Definitely a conversation stopper.
    I look up at the picture hanging behind Principal Kinne. They wear matchy-matchy clothes—he, his wife, and three kids. Two big dogs with shiny fur lie in the shot. They all sit in front of a tree. It’s fall and the leaves are bright orange, red, and yellow. The frame is engraved: A FAMILY IS A LITTLE WORLD CREATED BY LOVE .
    I look back at the piece of paper. Termination of parental rights. I read the words over and try to say them. Everybody stares at me. Waiting.
    In order to speak, the brain has to create an idea of what it wants to communicate to somebody else. But what am I supposed to say when there’s nothing to say?
    How could I have messed this all up? I think back tomy first plan. The money from the cache was gone. So I just thought I’d sell my things. But time. It just was too late, and now—
    And now.
    I need a purpose.
    The words blur on the page. So we don’t have the matching sweaters or the picture, but Dad is my family. I don’t know if our “little world” is created by love or necessity or obligation. But it’s ours. I take a big gulp of air and look up at Beulah. “You can’t do this. My dad not my dad? He’ll never let this happen.”
    Beulah scowls. “It’s not personal, Maya. This is in your best interest.”
    Not personal?
    Ripping my family apart?
    I concentrate on a water stain on the ceiling. One of the counselors pats my shoulder. “Maya, we’re so sorry,” she says. “We had no idea.”
    Beulah clears her throat. “In the meantime, we’ll be looking for appropriate foster-care placement.”
    â€œWhat about bail?” I ask.
    Beulah blushes, her cardboard face turning blotchy. “All of your assets have been seized.”
    â€œCan’t I just stay at Kids Place until Dad gets out? How long could that be, anyway?”
    â€œWe’re not sure.” Beulah’s face has gone back to that beige color. “And it’s not realistic to wait around until he does, uh”—she coughs—“get out.” She pauses, then says, “For the time being, we believe it would be healthier to place you in a foster home.” Beulah flips through her file. “With a family.”
    I think about what Jess said about freak foster families.
    Family.
    So now I’m going to live the two-parents-and-two-point-zero-nine-children American dream mandated by the State of Nevada. Whoopee.
    â€œYour father has mentioned some relative, but he’s pretty vague.” Beulah gnaws on her pencil.
    What relative?
    I sigh. I figure there has to be someone. It’s not like Dad and Mom were bizarre results of asexual reproduction. Jesus, even if they were test-tube babies, some woman had to have given birth to them and some guy’s lucky sperm was involved. Maybe Dad’s been checking out Genealogy.com or something.
    Probably not. It’s not like there’s WiFi in prison.
    I look at everybody in the room and try to deflect their pity stares. Maybe I have a seventh cousin four times removed or something. Somewhere.
    Honestly,