“Look what I swiped.” Star opened her messenger bag and pulled out a blue plastic piercing gun like the ones used at kiosks and cheap jewelry stores in malls. “I stole some earrings too. Who wants something pierced? How about you, Emily?”
“No thanks.”
“She's not street,” Monkey said. He had festering snakebites on his bottom lip. Emily remembered him now, the metal vibrating with the chattering of his teeth. Emily had kissed a few guys with lip jewelry, but never labrets.
Lorelei finally reappeared carrying her pack.
Star clicked the piercing gun and everybody oohed.
“How about you, Lorelei? You want a nose ring or another hole in your ear? This thing'll do cartilage like butter.”
“I don't care. I'll do it,” Lorelei said. Monkey gave her his chair. She sifted through the earrings and selected a silver hoop.
“Where you want it?” Star asked.
Lorelei pointed to her right nostril. “Okay, but it's easier to do your lip.” Lorelei shrugged as if she couldn't have cared less. She pinched her bottom lip between two fingers and pulled it forward, exposing the thin vein-threaded flesh inside. Star positioned the device on either side of her lip and held the gun like she was ready to put a bullet in Lorelei's head.
“Stop!” Emily blurted. “Don't do that. I mean…I mean, I know you guys are bored and all, but shit, that's not sanitary. I mean, those piercing guns aren't even sanitary in the mall. How many people has that thing been used on?”
She was met with blank stares, as if the message didn't register.
“You know?” she continued. “Hep C? HIV? AIDS?”
“Look, Miss Buzzkill. Mind your own business,” Star snapped.
So much for gratitude, Emily thought.
“You guys have to think about this. Shit, throw that thing away.”
“She's got a point,” Lawrence said. “I wouldn't do it.” An unexpected voice of reason.
“Shut up, Lawrence,” Star said. “I've seen you share dirty rigs, so just shut up.”
Lorelei let go of her lip and leaned back, clearly having second thoughts.
“We're leaving now,” Emily said. “You guys do whatever you want. Nice to meet you Lawrence. Thanks for keeping Lorelei's backpack for her. That was real nice.”
Emily walked toward the door, fully expecting Lorelei to follow. It never occurred to Emily that she would want to stay, but when she looked back, the girl was still in the chair.
“Lorelei,” she prodded. “Come on, let's go get something to eat.”
“Yeah, Lorelei, your mommy's calling you. You better go now,” Star said.
“I'm about sick of you, Star,” Lawrence said. “Why don't you get the fuck out of here?”
Star turned her rage on Lawrence.
“Why? ‘Cause I don't bring you ice like your druggie girlfriend?”
Trash talk flew.
Lorelei silently slipped out the door behind Emily.
They drove toward downtown. Emily tried to talk, but Lorelei was somber. She balled up into herself again and leaned against the passenger door, pressing her forehead to the window, staring out, focused on nothing.
“Lorelei, I've never seen you like this. What's wrong?”
No response. She seemed hollowed-out, flat, emotionless.
“If you're mad at me about the piercing gun, too bad. I can't say I'm sorry. Who knows what sick person she's been poking with that thing?”
“That's not it,” she said as if she were so tired she could hardly form words. “You can't possibly understand.”
“So try me.”
She turned soulful eyes to Emily, and a single tear ran down her cheek. It made an optical illusion, as if the bird on her skin were weeping.
“Oh, more tears. Look. We got your pack back. Buck up.”
“Whatever,” Lorelei muttered.
This girl was so confusing, so hard to reach. Was this what parents had to deal with, unexplainable mood swings, bad judgment and derision?
“Look, maybe I don't understand. But I'd like to. Explain things to me.”
Lorelei sighed and rubbed her eyes so hard that Emily was afraid she would hurt herself.
“It's just that sometimes you don't really care what happens to you,” Lorelei said. “You don't care about anything.”
“So you go looking for danger? For some way to hurt yourself?”
“I guess. It's like nothing matters,” she said. “Sometimes you just don't care anymore. Sometimes you just want to die.”
They drove a few blocks in silence.
Suddenly, Lorelei said, “Let me out.” Her eyes were dark and wild. “Let me out,” she said, getting louder each time. “Let me out. Let me out! Let me out right now!”
“Okay, Jesus. Calm down.” Emily pulled close to the rumpled sidewalk.
Lorelei jumped out, dragging her pack behind her.
“Hey,” Emily called, but the girl slammed the door on the rest of her words and walked away in the direction of Siesta Gardens.
David
WEDNESDAY WAS triage day. Amelia and Steve led the staff in reviewing active cases. This was the time they all came together—the counselors, mental health specialists, the sexual assault counselor and the education specialist—to work on an action plan for each youth.
Everybody looked tired, but despite the long hours and difficulties caused by the flood, there had been recent successes. Everybody was in a good mood, joking and laughing.
“Okay. Let's get on with business,” David said. “Who's up first? Amelia, you want to go?”
“Sure. Pretty good week. I got to send four kids back to their parents, and I felt like they were all positive returns.”
Everybody applauded.
“I've got some others, though,” she whistled and shook her head. “These are some tough cases here. I've got a boy right now. His name is Jeremy Flynn. Street name, Cargo. He's been on bipolar and depression meds in the past.” Amelia kept the paper work flowing for food stamps, birth certificates, identification and Social Security cards, but this kid seemed to need much more than the basics.
“He won't talk to me until he gets a sleeping bag. David, I saw some stuff in black garbage bags on the loading dock this morning.”
“Yeah, big donation,” Steve said.
“Think we've got any sleeping bags in there?”
“I'll be happy to go check. Carry on. I'll be right back.”
David picked through the dozens of possibilities on his giant key ring as he walked to the back to see what had arrived.
He was surprised to find the pantry open. Fiona was leaning against the jamb talking to somebody inside. The bare bulb in the pantry threw harsh light on Fiona, accentuating her thin frame and the mascara bruises under her eyes.
“Fiona, how are you?” he asked.
“Great, man.” She had the liquid body movements of someone impaired.
“You hungry or did you just come to see me because of my sparkling personality?”
It took a second too long for her to laugh.
“Ha. Yeah, man. Right. That's funny.”
“Hey, Fiona. Look at me.”
She raised her dreamy eyes to his.
Now was not a good time to talk to her about her mother, but he had no choice. She could disappear on him again.
“Fiona, I had a conversation with your mother the other day.”
No response.
“Your mom, she wants you to come home.”
Fiona wrinkled her nose, an indication that some part of the message had gotten through.
“No fucking way, man. I'm never going back there.”
“She says she's getting divorced, that she believes you. She wants you to come home.”
“That's a lie. She lies, lies, lies about…about everything.”
“Why don't you call her? You can use the phone in my office.”
“She's a bitch. I'm never…ever…ever…going to talk to her again.” She jabbed her
finger at David for emphasis. “Never. Never. Never.” Jab. Jab. Jab.
“She may come to Austin looking for you.”
Her eyes snapped clear for a second. “Don't you let her come here.”
“I can't stop her. Free country.”
“No man. No. No.” She ran her hands over her face as if she were rubbing the mere thought of her mother out of her head.
He decided to change the subject.
“Forget it. Look, you seen Lorelei lately?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, drifting away again. “Yeah, man. She's around.”
“Hey, look at me. Have you seen her since the flood? Is everybody back down at Shoal Creek?”
“Huh? No. Mook got busted for public uri…uri…for pissing in public.”
“He get a ticket?”
“Yeah, like seventy-five bucks or something. Ain't that some shit?”
“So you haven't seen Lorelei?”
“She's hanging with…that bartender girl.”
“Who is that?”
“Emily…Emily…ah…somebody.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember her saying something about having a friend. What's the name of that bar her friend works at?”
“I don't know.”
“Group Therapy. Isn't that the one? Group Therapy?”
“Ding, ding, ding, ding! That's right!” She snapped her fingers slowly, but no sound came. “That's right. You win!” She cupped her hands to the sides of her mouth and made a sound like the cheer of a distant crowd. “Whhaaaaaaaa!”
David didn't want Fiona wandering around in her condition.
“Fiona, go over and sit on the couch. Drink some water,” he instructed.
“Whatever.” She stumbled away and crumpled onto the couch. She was burning bright and then came the sudden fade. He recognized the heroin oblivion slide. Drugs were the usual aftermath of hitting the streets, not the cause as so many people thought. Drugs temporarily washed away the anxiety and constant struggle of homelessness. Everybody needed to check out at times.
He covered her with a blanket. When she woke up she was going to feel like shit.
David pulled his bike to the curb and continued his ten-hour workday with a stop at the bar to see if he could track down Lorelei. His job could be 24/7 if he let it. He often thought it was good that he wasn't married with kids.
He recognized Group Therapy as somewhere he'd been a couple of times when he was in college. Inside it looked like a bar and it smelled like a bar. When he saw the bartender, he felt another tug of recognition. He never forgot a face, and this one had walked into the drop-in right after the flood with that pushy reporter. So, this was Emily. She had a wide smile and a wispy sort of grace. Her skin was smooth and sun-kissed. David was suddenly glad he wasn't married with kids for a different reason.
She finished ringing up her customer and laughed off the guy's attempt to flirt. She hit a button on the sound system, then came David's way.
“Hi, what can I get you?” she called over the first few chords of Tom Petty's Mary Jane's Last Dance.
“I'm looking for Emily.”
“I'm Emily. Oh, hey. Do I know you?”
“I'm David Simpson. We met one day at the drop-in, right after the flood.”
She said, “Ooooh, yeah. Sorry about that. Travis can be a little aggressive at times.”
“Not a problem. I'm used to aggressive. Do you know a young lady named Lorelei?”
Her expression changed. “Yeah, I know her. What's up?”
“Have you seen her since the flood?”
“Sure, she stayed with me for like five days right after.”
“You two friends?”
“Not really. I mean, I don't know if she considers me a friend or not.”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure. Let me get somebody to cover for me. Sit over there, okay?” She pointed to a round booth in the corner next to the bar.
A burly Mexican guy in an apron came out of the back to take over the bar. Emily brought a couple of beers and set a frosty mug in front of him.
“Lone Star, okay?”
“Absolutely. Man, I needed this.”
“Long day?”
“Long month.”
“So what's up? I haven't seen Lorelei in a while.”
“I'm just glad she made it through the flood. Is she doing okay?”
“I wouldn't say she's okay. She was hanging out in some crap hole apartment with a bunch of filthy kids the last time I saw her. I think they were shooting up. She seems like a wreck. Really depressed. Not thinking straight.”
“The younger kids usually have a harder time. They just can't navigate the streets like the older kids. Where was this apartment?”
“In that old Siesta Gardens over on the east side of town.”
“Yeah. I know the place. You think she's still hanging around there?”
“I wouldn't know. I took her there so she could retrieve a backpack she'd left behind. She freaked on me, jumped out of my car and ran away. I had hoped she'd go to the drop-in. She never showed up?”
“We haven't seen her since the flood.”
“Well, maybe she moved on to look for her brother.”
“I don't know anything about her having a brother.”
“Noah. Apparently he's homeless too. Schizophrenic. Older. Parents didn't want to take care of him anymore. She's looking for him.”
David took a long drink of beer. “Well, that makes sense. Probably half my kids have some form of mental illness—depression, bipolar, schizophrenia. If she's used to mental illness then she can handle being around unpredictable people. Probably one reason why she's surviving.”
Emily scanned the bar, an unconscious habit he could tell. Her eyes darted to different people, to the bar, back to David.
“So,” she said, “is it normal for you to search for these kids at night like this?”
“This is unusual, you know, with the flood and all. Plus, she seems so young. I try to keep an eye on the really young ones.”
“That's got to be hard.”
David couldn't tell if she meant hard for the kids or hard for him.
“You know anything about her? Anything that would help me find her?”
“Nope. That kid, she's a mystery. She doesn't talk much and when she does, I get the feeling you should only believe about half of what comes out of her mouth.”
David studied a bead of condensation creeping down the side of his beer to keep himself from looking at Emily's lips.
“Tell me about it,” he said. “They're all guarded, but she seems to be particularly difficult to read.”
Emily
EMILY SAT cross-legged on the counter next to her bathroom sink. She leaned close to the vanity mirror and applied a perfect swish of black eyeliner. Her gaze fell on the faded club stamps on her hand. The things hung around for days, like afterthoughts on her skin.
She licked her hand. One by one she rubbed away the stains. She liked the statement they made but also their temporary nature.
Her phone rang out For the Love of Money by the O'Jays.
She considered not answering, but she flipped it open and said, “Hola, Barbara.”
“Hello sweetheart. Are you getting ready for bed?”
“It's Friday night. You know I'm getting ready to go out.”
There was a pause. “At eleven?”
“Did you need something?”
“Oh, yes. I'll be brief. Just…”
Emily waited. This happened sometimes. Her mother would call wanting to talk about something, but then she'd have second thoughts after her finger had already dialed.
“Barbara, is something wrong?”
“Let me ask you. Why do you always call me Barbara? Why don't you ever call me Mom?”
“You called me to ask why I don't call you Mom?”
“No. It just occurred to me. Why do you call your father and me by our first names?”
“I don't know. I just always have.”
“I know. Don't you think that's strange?”
“I know some other kids who use their parents’ first names.”
“Well, whatever. I really called to ask if you think your father is acting strange.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, different. Do you think he's been acting different lately? You know, more depressed, like a couple of years ago.”
“I haven't noticed.”
“He's so moody. He just comes home from work and shuts himself up in that theater room.”
“Maybe he likes movies.”
“Emily, don't be so flip.”
“If you think something is wrong why don't you just ask him?”
“You know how he is—the strong silent type. He'd never admit anything was wrong. I thought we could all go to dinner. See if you think he's in a funk.”
“I think you're creating a problem where there isn't one.”
“I'm just worried about him. He's in a mood.”
“Just relax. He'll come out of it.”
“Maybe. Maybe.” Emily could tell she was fishing for something else to talk about. This happened too. Sometimes her mother would call without a reason, just to check up on her. “So, it's been a while since we spoke. How's that little street urchin you've become friends with?”
“Lorelei? Oh, she's okay I guess. I haven't seen her in a while.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, I just couldn't help but notice that when you ditched me at Chuy's the other day you drove off with her in your car. I didn't realize you were still friends.”
Emily bit her lip and climbed down off of the counter. She walked to her bedroom closet and began snapping hangers to the side, looking for something to wear.
“Look, I just gave her a ride somewhere.”
“So, she's not living with you?”
“No. She's not living with me.”
“So you just happened to run into her in Chuy's parking lot. You're not hiding her from me?”
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