Chapter8 It’s “five after three” and I’m trying not to “see what I see.” My foster mother is standing right outside my school, right next to troublemaker Teqwila Johnson and her posse! What is Mrs. Bosco doing here, anyway? Something must be wrong. I’m ’bout to bounce, but Mrs. Bosco sees me before I can make my move. “Hi, Mrs. Bosco,” I say with a smile, trying to act normal. I always call her Mrs. Bosco, even when we’re in public, so kids don’t make fun of how she looks. The first time she came to my school, I was in the first grade, and kids teased me the whole year, saying, “That’s not really your mother! She’s ugly!” “What you are doing here?” I ask my foster mother nicely. Mrs. Bosco doesn’t really like huggy, kissy stuff, especially in public, but I would really like to smooth the wrinkles down on her hot pink dress, which is shaped just like a tent. “I just wanted to surprise you,” Mrs. Bosco says, grinning from ear to ear. Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach.
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