Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless

by Melody Carlson

  I consider this. I might be homeless, but I still have my pride. I'm not about to admit I don't have friends. "I have friends I hang with at work," I say with mock confidence.

  "You have a job?"

  "I do. And I'm saving up enough to get a place of my own too.

  She actually seems impressed by this. "Cool."

  Now I feel my guard dropping a little. "But it's still kind of lonely."

  She nods. "I know."

  The door opens and a librarian sticks her head in the bathroom. "Closing time, ladies."

  "Yeah, yeah," Cybil says. "We're outta here."

  Soon Cybil and I are outside, and I'm not really sure what to say. "It was cool meeting you," I tell her as we go down the stairs.

  "Yeah. You too."

  "So, where do you go from here?" I ask out of pure curiosity.

  She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "I have a friend with an apartment over on Third Avenue. He'll let me crash there tonight."

  "Do you need a ride?"

  She looks shocked. "Seriously? Do you have a car?"

  "Yeah." I point to the black van and the only vehicle left in the patron section of the parking lot.

  "Cool." She nods eagerly. "Sure, I'd love a ride."

  "It's kind of an ugly van," I admit as we get inside. "I call it Darth Vader."

  She laughs. "Fitting name." She looks into the back. "Do you live here?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Very cool!"

  "And kind of cold, too," I confess as I start the engine. "But I bundle up and I have a lot of bedding, so it's not too bad. Hopefully it won't be for too much longer."

  She directs me to a run-down apartment complex, then invites me to come up and meet her friend. Curious as to what kind of place this might be and what the rent would run, I accept her offer. But when I see the dump of an apartment and several seedy-looking older guys sitting around drinking, I decide to cut my visit short.

  "Don't go yet," a guy named Tony tells me. "You just got here."

  "I know." I force a smile. "But I have to work in the morning."

  "A working girl, eh?" says a guy who looks to be around thirty.

  "Come on," urges Tony. "Stick around and have a beer."

  "Thanks anyway. But I really need to go. Maybe another time."

  "Okay." He nods like I just made a date with him. "I'm holding you to that!"

  I tell Cybil good-bye then, relieved to get away, and hurry back to the van. Maybe Cybil's friends are okay. Or maybe they're not. I really don't want to find out. For the most part they remind me of a younger version of some of the guys my mom hooked up with over the years. Losers.

  Cybil actually seems to have more going for her than those dudes in the cruddy apartment. In fact, it makes me wonder why she'd settle for that. Except that she is homeless. And, like me, her options are limited.

  alloween isn't until Friday, but it seems that I picked the one night the library is celebrating to do my homework here. Fortunately, story hour (complete with a witch) is over, and the place quiets back down into what I expect a library to be. I'm just settling back into my history when Cybil joins me.

  "Hey." She plops down in an easy chair across from me. "How's it going?"

  "Okay." I set my book down. "How about you?"

  "I've had better days."

  "Meaning?"

  She rubs her stomach. "I'm starving."

  Now this statement coming from some people is just an exaggeration. But from a homeless person, well, it gets my attention. And since I worked today, I've had plenty to eat. So naturally, I feel bad for her. "I can loan you a couple of bucks," I offer, knowing full well this will crunch my lunch budget tomorrow.

  She brightens. "Cool." Then her smile fades. "Except I don't know when I can pay you back."

  I wave my hand. "It's okay."

  "I was going to do some panhandling at the grocery store down the street, but a cop came along and I zipped over here."

  "Can you get arrested for panhandling?"

  "It's illegal in our town."

  "Oh . . ." I nod as I dig a couple bucks and some loose change from my purse. "Good to know."

  "Yeah. The cops don't do much besides take your information -and I always lie about where I live. I give them my aunt's old address, and they don't seem to know the difference since it's a rental house anyway. Mostly they just try to scare you off the streets."

  I hand her the cash. "How many times have you been picked up for panhandling anyway?"

  "Just a couple. I know to be more careful now." She tucks the money into her coat pocket. "Thanks."

  "So, where are you staying tonight?"

  She shrugs. "I don't know."

  I want to question her about her low-life guy friends in the sleazy apartment, but it's not really my business. Still, I'd like to warn her to be careful. "How old are you anyway?"

  "Almost sixteen."

  I try not to look shocked. "So . . . what year are you in school?"

  "Sophomore."

  "Oh ...,,

  "Yeah, I know what you're thinking."

  "What?"

  "How am I going to do it? Make it through almost three years of high school while living on the streets."

  "Hey, I'm pretty concerned about just making it through the next seven months so I can graduate and get out of this town."

  "Yeah, well, maybe I won't graduate."

  "You'd drop out?"

  "I could get my GED," Cybil says.

  "And then what?"

  "A job ... or get married."

  "But you're so young."

  "Age is just a number, Adele."

  "I know . . ." And for no explainable or rational reason, I start to feel almost big sisterly toward Cybil just now. "But quitting high school ... to work or to get married ... it just doesn't seem like a good plan."

  She looks exasperated. "It's not like I planned all this."

  "I know." I nod. "Neither did I. My mom just took off, and I'm trying to make the best of it."

  "Your mom ditched you, too?"

  "Is that what happened to you?"

  "Kind of." She scowls. "First my mom took off and I ended up with my grandma. That was back when I was just starting middle school. But when I broke a few of Granny's silly little rules, she got fed up and dumped me on my aunt. That was okay for a while, but last summer, my aunt went back to her ex and told me to go home to Granny." She shakes her head. "No way was I doing that."

  "But you could, if you wanted?"

  She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, and I could be locked up in juvy too. Same difference."

  "Have you ever been in foster care?" I ask quietly.

  She nods. "When my mom ditched me with the neighbors, supposedly for the weekend, but she never came back. They called Children's Services and I ended up in the foster-care home from hell."

  I actually laugh. "Hey, I was in that one too."

  Cybil's eyes get wide. "Were you sexually abused?"

  I shake my head. "No ... I mean ... you know, almost. How about you?"

  She just nods.

  "Sorry."

  She shrugs. "Hey, at least it got me out of there when I reported it to my social worker. That's when I got sent to Granny's house. Unfortunately, Granny never liked kids. Guess that's what went wrong with my mom and my aunt."

  We continue to talk, and I'm surprised at how many similarities there are to our stories. Maybe that's how it is for a lot of kids. I guess I never really thought about it much, or I assumed I was all alone in this madness.

  "Sometimes I feel like I'm just this worthless piece of garbage," Cybil says sadly, "like no one wanted me in the first place and no one wants me now. People get uncomfortable when they see me coming; they look the other way."

  "I know what you mean. That's how I've been feeling lately." Admitting this isn't easy. "It's like everyone is treating me like a pariah."

  "What's that?"

  "Pariah?" I shrug. "You know ... something to be avoided.
An outcast."

  "You really are smart, aren't you?"

  I attempt a laugh. "I wasn't too smart in my choice of friends. That's obvious by the way they're treating me now."

  "But that's how you used to treat me."

  "What?"

  "Remember the first time you saw me in the bathroom and you stepped away from me like you thought I was contagious? Like you were worried you might catch something from me?"

  "Sorry."

  "Hey, I am used to it." She pushes a strand of dishwater blond hair behind an ear. "But look, you're in the same boat now.

  I nod. "It's weird. I got a feeling that day, or maybe it was a premonition, but it's like I knew deep inside of me that I wasn't much different than you. But I was trying to pretend ..."

  "Don't you think that's what everyone does ... just tries to pretend? Like the snooty kids you used to hang with. I mean, think about it, if their parents ditched them, they'd be in the same place we are right now. How would they feel then?"

  "Good point." I smile at her. "You know, Cybil, you seem like an intelligent person. I don't know why you'd even consider dropping out of school."

  "Other than the fact I might have no choice."

  "Of course you have a choice." I pause to think. "What if you got a part-time job?"

  She frowns. "Yeah right. What would be the point?"

  "The point would be that if you had some income, you and I could get an apartment together-we wouldn't be homeless anymore.

  "Really?" Her whole face lights up now. "You'd consider doing that with me?"

  "Why not? Like you said, we're in the same boat. Why not help each other row for the shore?"

  Now her smile fades. "But who would hire me?"

  "Lots of people." I tell her about my unusual employment history, which began when I was a lot younger than her. I explain how she can get a food handlers card and make a resume and all sorts of things. "I could even help you with your resume, and we could print it out right here on one of the library computers."

  "That would be cool. When do we start?"

  I glance at the big clock over the reception desk. "Not tonight; it's almost closing time." I start to put my books back into my bag.

  "Yeah. Anyway, I am seriously starving."

  "Want me to give you a lift?"

  She shrugs. "Sure, but I don't even know where I'm going. I mean, besides Burger King for their one-buck specials."

  As we go outside and down the library steps, I can tell that it's even colder now than when I got off work. "So, you really don't know where you're staying tonight?" I ask once we're inside the van.

  "I could crash at Tony's ..." I hear the reservation in her voice.

  "No offense, Cybil, but that didn't seem like such a great place." I stop for the traffic light and hope I'm not overstepping any boundaries.

  "Maybe not to you, since you have your warm, dry van to stay in, but trust me, it beats sleeping under a bridge."

  I consider pointing out that while Darth Vader might be dry, it's certainly not warm-but decide not to. After all, isn't this all kind of relative? Now we ride in silence to Burger King. But when Cybil gets out, she slams the door so hard the van rocks. And okay, I'm pretty sure I've offended her. For all I know, she might not even come back or speak to me again. And why should that bother me? Don't I have enough problems of my own without going out looking for more?

  And yet I feel bad. It has been interesting getting to know this girl . . . almost like a friendship. Still, what's the point? Why not just drive away and forget it? I suppose I'm lonely ... or maybe just desperate. But for whatever reason, when I see Cybil emerging from Burger King with a take-out bag in hand, I decide to make up for my bad manners. I open the window and, stifling a cough, call her back over to the van.

  "Look" - I give an awkward smile - "maybe you could try spending the night in the van for one night."

  "Seriously?"

  I nod, coughing as I wave her around to the passenger side. "Hurry, get in."

  "Thanks!" She runs around to the other side and hops in.

  "Yeah. We'll see how it goes. Maybe we'll figure out that we don't get along and we should never be roommates." I cough as I start up the engine.

  "You should take something for that cough," she tells me as I pull into traffic.

  "Oh, it comes and goes." As I head toward the nursing home, I explain about my job, how I park in the River Woods parking lot, but how we must be very careful not to be seen.

  "No problem," she says with a mouthful of food. "I'm used to keeping a low profile. And I used the Burger King restroom, so I'm good for the night."

  Naturally the van is much more crowded with Cybil, but after I do some rearranging, I have to admit it's comforting having company. And she doesn't complain. Now I'm really thankful that I took all the bedding from the condo. We need it. After we're in our makeshift bed, we actually talk for a while, but eventually she drifts off to sleep and I'm left lying there feeling a whole bunch of mixed emotions.

  On one hand, it feels good to help someone in need ... on the other hand, I wish someone would help me. Then I remember what my mom used to say about karma: "What goes 'round comes 'round . . . be good to others and others will be good to you." And while that makes sense on some levels, it hasn't exactly been my personal experience. I mean, I try to be good to everyone, yet here I am homeless. Meanwhile my mom-who's been more of a taker than a giver-for all I know she is out there living the good life somewhere. Or not. Anyway, life seems more like a coin toss than karma to me.

  I actually feel a tiny bit more optimistic the next morning. Cybil seems genuinely appreciative of my hospitality, and on our way to school, she talks seriously about finding a job and the prospects of us sharing an apartment.

  "I'm a good cook," she says. "And I know how to keep house too. My grandma saw to that. So if I tried, I think I could be a pretty good roommate."

  "I'll start looking for apartments after the first," I tell her. "If you got a job right away, we might be able to get into something before Thanksgiving."

  "Cool." She nods happily as we get out of the van.

  As we walk toward school, I explain how I have to leave after seventh period to have time to change my clothes and make it to work on time. "But if you want a ride, just meet me out here."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "And I'll run inside the nursing home to find an old Classifieds section of the newspaper to bring back to you. And you can start looking for jobs and working on that resume. Okay?"

  "Sure."

  I'm surprised at how good it feels to be helping someone. It's like my problems suddenly seem smaller and I actually feel nearly normal until I see Bristol giving me that look in art class. I'm not even sure how someone can look down her nose at someone who is the same height, but Bristol has this expression down pat. Usually I ignore her, but honestly I just wish she'd get over it.

  Instead of saying something snide, like I'm tempted to do, I go directly to my table and get to work sketching a tree onto my watercolor paper. Then to my surprise, Lindsey, who has been fairly tight lipped since my "fall from friends," actually speaks to me. At first I think I imagined it, but then she says something else.

  "That tree is turning out pretty good."

  "Thanks." I still don't look up, keeping my eyes on my paper. And for a while we both work quietly. She's beyond the sketching stage now, and I can hear her watercolor brush dipping into the jar of water and tap-tap-tapping against the glass.

  "I noticed you talking with Cybil Henderson at the library last night." Lindsey's voice is low, like she wants to keep this private. "Do you think that's wise?"

  I frown up at her. "Wise?"

  "Remember what we talked about last week?"

  "Huh?"

  "You told me you weren't into drugs."

  "Yeah." I cock my head to one side, just studying her, trying to figure out what her game is.

  "Well, you might not want to hang with someone l
ike Cybil Henderson then."

  Okay, this just seriously irks me. Lindsey, the perfect little librarian's helper, the perfect little Christian, getting ready to take her perfect little European vacation-and she's telling me to ditch my one and only friend? Little Miss Perfect wants me to dump a poor homeless girl who's already been ditched by (1) her mom, (2) her grandmother, and (3) her aunt. What is wrong with this picture?

  "I'm just saying that you need to be careful about your friends," Lindsey continues, like she's some kind of expert in this area, or maybe she thinks she's a social worker.

  "You know, I think I've learned a thing or two about friends recently," I say in a tone that's sharper than I intended.

  Lindsey nods. "But not all lessons have to be learned the hard way."

  I grip my pencil so tightly that I'm surprised it doesn't snap.

  "I'm just trying to help you, Adele." She makes an apologetic smile.

  "Help me?" I'm suppressing the urge to scream right now. "You really want to help me?"

  She shrugs. "I just think you could be more selective in choosing your friends."

  I take in a slow, deep breath, mentally counting to ten. Then I look evenly at her. "It's weird, Lindsey. I haven't noticed that you have any friends. In fact, you seem like a bit of a loner to me. Isn't it ironic that you're giving me advice on friends?"

  I can tell I got her with that zapper. Without saying a word, she dips her brush in the water and returns to her painting. But I am still fuming inside. I press my pencil to the paper so firmly that the lead snaps. And I can relate to that. I feel like I'm about to snap too. Seriously, what is wrong with people?

  ybil and I seem to be getting along okay, and by the end of the week, we've actually made progress on her resume and lined up some possible places for her to apply. I've been coaching her on how to do an interview, and we're planning an outfit for her to wear. I actually feel fairly positive about the prospects.

  "We're invited to a Halloween party tonight," Cybil tells me on Friday as I'm driving us home from school. "You have the night off, right?"

  "What party?" I ask with a mix of suspicion and hopefulness. On one hand, it would be cool to go to a real Halloween party ... on the other, it could be a skanky party.

  "A Halloween party," she says like I wasn't listening.