I sit up in my chair.
“I mean, we’re together.” Seung points at me with all five fingers, then at himself. “Together, Mom.”
“Together?” Ham’s dad interrupts. “Ham? Is this so? I thought you and Seung—”
Ham groans but a smile spreads from lobe to lobe. He stands and shuffles up to an invisible podium. “Dad. Mom. Seung and I are not together.” He pushes at the air with his hands. “We are so incredibly not together.”
“But I don’t understand, Son.” Mr. Royse’s voice whines, then turns into a whisper. “You’re not gay?”
Ham laughs. Oh boy, does he laugh. “Oh no, Dad. I’m gay. As gay as Seung is straight. And he’s not my type. I mean, have you seen his chest, those thighs, his arms? They’re spaghetti noodles compared to—” Ham whips around to face Seung. “Sorry, dude.”
Seung rolls his eyes.
“But you are gay? Right?” Ham’s dad scoots to the edge of his desk chair, leans in, and whispers, “Please, Son. Tell me you’re—”
“At ease, Dad.” Ham pats his father’s shoulder. “I’m gay. I’m seeing Jarrell. And the world is ours. Happy now?”
Mr. Royse exhales and Ham plops into his chair, grinning.
“Well, then.” Mr. George claps his hands. “I—I mean we—want to present an offer as well.” Mr. George and his husband walk to my desk. Mr. George squats beside my chair. “You’re welcome to live with us,” he says, and takes my hand. “We”—he motions to his husband—“want you to live with us.”
“Hold up!” Seung blurts, his finger in the air. “I need to talk to Linden, alone.” He stands and motions for me to follow to the back of the room. “It will only take a minute. Promise.”
We rush to Mr. George’s coat closet, and Seung reaches for my hand. When we feel everyone’s stares, Seung yanks me inside and slams the door.
“Linden,” he says, fumbling in the dark for my other hand, “my parents really want you to move in with us. I want you to move in with us. But I don’t think you should.”
I nod, but Seung can’t see me. “I don’t, either.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t.” I hear Seung exhale.
“It could get weird.”
“Incredibly weird.”
“Why mess up a good thing?”
“We’re just getting started.”
Seung traces my arm, wrist to elbow. I slip my hand behind his back and pull him toward me. We bump chins and noses until our lips find each other and lock into place.
“What if we have a fight?” I whisper at his mouth. “Things could get complicated.”
“And what if we decide to have sex?” Seung whispers back. “Things could get even more complicated.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. My face does, though, with heat. And my lips, my tongue, never stop responding.
We aren’t ready to live together. I’m still learning how to live.
For several minutes, we forget we’re making out in Mr. George’s coat closet with teachers and parents in the room. When we finally open the closet door, Mr. George and his husband welcome me with open, inviting arms. The perfect helicopter parents I never had.
Chapter Thirty-One
THERE’S A LINE IN ONE of Ham’s mob movies that defines family as who you are sworn to, not who you were born to. Friends included.
My friends have become family. My family is my friends.
One month glided by since my new family officially formed. The world braked, backed up, opened a door, and begged me to climb in. Unstoppable spinning screeched to a halt. I didn’t think it was possible for that spin to stop. But when you quit running and hiding, you can finally slow down, take breaths, and settle into the moment. Your mind quiets, your brain quits buzzing.
Mr. and Mr. George are the perfect parents. Offsetting pastries for breakfast with kale-packed super smoothies. “It’s all about balance,” Mr. George says. He knows exactly what I need.
I haven’t stopped logging what I owe Mr. George, or everyone else in my life for that matter. My journal still hides beneath my pillow, keeping me close to my mother. I think it’s something she would have done. Something she’d be proud I’m doing.
When I sit here in Mr. George’s home, now my own, on my pillowed platform bed, my body wrapped in one-thousand-thread-count sheets, I think about the heavy curtains in the theater room that kept me warm for over a year, the powdered soap that kept me clean. All those nights I missed security by minutes and slept in the dugout. I was cold, tired, scared, but I was alive and ready to fight for one more day.
Painful memories slip in and out, as they did before, but they’re different now. Not as hurtful today as they were yesterday. And tomorrow . . . yeah, tomorrow . . . bursts with promise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Three Months Later
I TAP THE MICROPHONE THREE times and clear my throat.
The crowd in the gymnasium hushes except for my front-row cheering squad. Folding cha irs lined up in rows are beginning to fill with students as they flood through the doors and into the middle of the gym. Ham’s standing at his chair beneath the makeshift stage, waving at me like a parent at a child’s preschool graduation. He wears a T-shirt with script words: #HomelessIsWhen.
Ham started a nonprofit, said he was trying to “bring awareness” and “shed light on shit.” He demanded that I help, since, you know, I’m the spokesperson. I would have volunteered anyway without the arm twist or promise that it was his ticket to college with me.
Ham’s hashtag went viral. In our school, that is.
Bea and Beth colored posters spreading awareness and plastered them all over the gym, halls, and classrooms. The posters say things like #HomelessIsWhen We Don’t Look and #HomelessIsWhen We Don’t See. Bea’s a different person with Reed out of the picture. Well, with Reed being homeschooled, or attending school out of state, or being arrested for hitting another girl. I’m uncertain which rumor is truth.
I smile as Jarrell pretzels his arms around Ham’s back. Ham drops his head against Jarrell’s chest, which is wrapped in a black custom T-shirt with block letters that reads: I’m with Him, only the i in Him is slashed and a red a inserted in its place. Ham’s become a beautiful bubble I never want to pop.
Someone shouts, “You’ve got this!” And in that moment, I think, Shit, maybe I do. Beth motions for Bea to sit down, and Bea shoos her away like a bug. Bea nods in my direction and I nod back. She lifts her hands and claps the tips of her fingers together. Minuscule movements, baby steps forward. Small, but I’ll take it.
Bea and I aren’t best friends. But we’re not enemies, either. We’re just two girls finding our way in a world that often pushes back against us for reasons that are different, yet the same. We smile in the halls, always say hello. Our support for each other is understated. We don’t have to state it for it to exist.
Mr. George petitioned the city for a halfway house so women in abusive relationships can escape. He also asked me to help lead Hinderwood High’s donation team, but when Bea stepped up, I stepped aside. Bea leads with ease. It just took her some time to find her stride.
Kristen runs toward the front row waving a banner that reads:
Congrats, Linden!
She trips on a guy’s boot blocking the aisle and whips around with her finger aimed. She scolds him for laughing, and for manspreading. Then she squeezes next to Ham and flops the flag against the heads of three students. She hops up and down and cheers.
Toby pushes his way to the front row. His peach-fuzz eyebrows are growing in nicely. The bronzer finally wore off his face but left blotches of orange like a patchwork necklace along his neckline. He decided to leave his hair neon orange, thought it made his eyes pop beneath his football helmet when he defended the line. Fear factor, he said.
Toby inches beside Seung. He nods, giving Toby the go-ahead to grab him like a teddy bear and lift him above ground. Seung pats Toby’s back, a signal to put him safely on
the floor where he belongs. Toby drops Seung and grins. He now hugs Seung any chance he gets. He tries to hug Ham, too, but Ham stiff-arms and shouts, “I’m already taken!” before Toby can wrap his arms around him. The hugs are Toby’s way of apologizing for all his racist bullshit. And it’s Seung’s way to always forgive. Seung and his amazing heart.
The gym is brimming with students and parents and people from town. Deputy Boggs and his tiny team sit toward the back. Mr. Ryckman, the janitor, stands by the door. Eva, my grandmother’s old nurse, scoots toward an empty chair into the middle of the crowd. She waves when she sees me and yells, “Go, girl!”
I fix my eyes on Seung in the front row. He takes a breath, which I know is for my own benefit, and before he exhales, I begin.
“Thank you all for being here today.”
The gym hushes.
“Thank you. To all the teachers. To Principal Falls. And the students and parents who took the time to come.”
Complete silence.
“Thank you for having me.”
You could hear a pin drop.
“Thank you for letting me share my story.”
When I finish, the crowd claps. Okay, erupts.
Seung is the first to leap to his feet and cheer, then the first to climb on his chair and shout. In my honor. Ham and Jarrell hop onto their folding chairs, too. Ham yells my name, and within seconds, everyone else in the room is chanting, too.
Lin-den.
Lin-den.
Lin-den.
Tears flood my face and I’m too busy smiling at the crowd, standing on their seats and chanting my name, to give a damn.
Toby jumps up, cheering. Mr. Dique holds his hand out and Principal Falls steps onto her seat. Her turbulent claps make Mr. Dique duck his head before scurrying over to a vacant chair and climbing up. Every teacher follows. I even see Coach Jenkins shake open a folding chair and stomp upon the seat while pumping his fist.
I stand at the podium and listen to the rhythm of my name bounce off the rafters and against the matted walls. Principal Falsetto’s sister, Helen, smiles in my direction and winks. She shoots me a thumbs-up, then turns to speak into the camera. I gave her permission to share my words after I shared them with my school and the people I love. She promised she’d only report facts. She even put our agreement in writing.
Mrs. Rhee stands on her seat and hops, while Mr. Rhee holds her elbow for balance. Mr. Rhee catches my eye and offers a friendly salute. I salute him back.
I scan the crowd for Mr. George, but he’s vanished. I don’t remember seeing him during my speech. Probably started wailing and had to run out of the room for tissue. He hasn’t stopped blubbering since I filled him in on my plans. After living at Hinderwood High, I figured it was the right thing to do. I needed to share my story here, first, with the people who became family in such a short time. What I didn’t figure was how everyone would accept me, with open arms and a standing-on-chairs ovation.
A guy in the back shouts, “Look out!” He points up and half the gym cranes their necks toward the ceiling. A drone dips and darts and dives above heads. It’s coming straight for me, now hovering near the podium, aimed at my face.
I duck as Mr. Dique leaps off his chair and lunges toward me like he might tackle or rescue or flatten me onstage. He yells, “No more interruptions!” and swats his hands at the machine. The drone’s engine revs. “I said now is not the time!” Mr. Dique shrieks.
The machine buzzes above me, gently lowering itself onto the podium. Mr. Dique steps back as a dozen yellow roses drop from the landing skids and plop into my arms. As I look out into the crowd, someone in the front row gasps. Then a student shouts, “I knew it wasn’t one of us! It was one of them all along!”
A grin slowly spreads across Mr. Dique’s face as he nods at Mr. George, pointing and shouting, “You got me! You got me good!”
Mr. George climbs the steps of the stage and pitches the remote control onto the podium. I grin, thinking, Mr. George really is the perfect helicopter, I mean drone, parent. He wraps his arms around me and doesn’t stop squeezing until Seung taps his shoulder and says, “Cutting in.”
“HOMELESS IS WHEN”
a speech and article by Linden Rose
winner of the National Scholarship for Journalism
Willamette University, Spring 2018
A complete version of this op-ed piece
was published on KOIN 6’s news blog and
in Hinderwood High School’s online newspaper.
Resources
THOUGH THIS BOOK IS A work of fiction, I wholeheartedly acknowledge the real-life teens who face homelessness and poverty. Their situations may reflect, in some way, Linden’s experience. Unfortunately, poverty and homelessness impact millions of youth.
If you need immediate help and aren’t sure where to turn, contact Safe Place at www.nationalsafeplace.org/safe-place-teens or TXT 4 HELP. Text the word SAFE and your location (address/city/state) to 69866 for help in your area. If you are located in a city or town without a Safe Place program, help is available through the National Runaway Switchboard—a national toll-free hotline for runaway, homeless, and other youth in crisis. Call 1-800-RUNAWAY or go to https://www.1800runaway.org.
If you would like to join an advocacy team to take action on ending homelessness in your community, please visit the National Alliance to End Homelessness at www.endhomelessness.org.
And if you are a victim of abuse, or have a friend or family member or know someone in an unhealthy relationship, visit: Love Is Respect at www.loveisrespect.org or call the hotline: 1-866-331-9474 or text LOVEIS to 22522.
Acknowledgments
YOU MADE IT TO THE acknowledgments page, and for that I am grateful. It takes a village, as they say, and the amazing team that helped put this book on the map deserves all the gold stars in the sky and my heartfelt thanks.
To Melissa Edwards, for your belief in this story and ability to champion it beyond my dreams. To the hardworking and dedicated people at Aaron Priest Literary Agency and Stonesong Literary Agency, with a special thank-you to Frances Jalet Miller for her early reading and editorial acumen.
My brilliant editor at HarperCollins, Alyson Day, helped make this book immeasurably better and navigated me through the muck with encouragement, insight, and sheer thoughtfulness. Tessa Meischeid made me smile every time we emailed. Abbe Goldberg shared her support. Renée Cafiero, my copyeditor; Joel Tippie, my designer; Bess Braswell, Tyler Breitfeller, and Mitchell Thorpe, the most amazing marketing and publicity folks. Megan Beatie has been a tireless advocate, and I am deeply grateful. And every person at HarperTeen who helped transform this book from imagination to tangible pages.
I owe a tremendous amount of gratitude to the English department at Whitman College. And, from my childhood, thank you to the librarians at Harney County Library, who never questioned why a parentless kid camped in their aisles from sunup to sundown.
So many thanks also to my fellow writers at the Electric Eighteens, especially Rebecca Sky and Rachel Lynn Solomon, for their willingness to lend eyes and ears at the drop of a hat. To Dana Mele and the struggle bus. We’re on this ride together. Thank you to Naomi Hughes for your early reads and Professor Linville for your words of encouragement when I lost my way.
To these authors, many of whom have now become friends, thank you for paving the way for me to tackle hard topics and write from the heart: Kathleen Glasgow, Kerry Kletter, Jennifer Niven, Caleb Roehrig, Amber Smith, Carlie Sorosiak, and Jeff Zentner. I respect you and your art.
Thanks also to my parents for believing in me. To my brother, Scott, for encouraging me to chase my dreams.
To my girls, Madysen and Ava, for love notes and hugs that last all day, and those five little words that kept me going: Mom—You can do it.
To Bryan, my rock, my home, my heart. You’ll always be the most amazing thing that ever happened to me. I love you.
Finally, my heartfelt thanks to my grandparents, who left this world a be
tter place. Thank you, Papa, for showing me homelessness was only a start, not the end.
About the Author
Photo by Carolyn Scott Photography
BRENDA RUFENER spent her childhood stomping through the woods of Oregon in search of bat-filled caves and Bigfoot. She successfully located one of the two and spent the rest of her time penciling short stories. A double major in English and biology, Brenda graduated from Whitman College. She lives in North Carolina with her family and is an advocate for homeless youth.
www.brendarufener.com
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
WHERE I LIVE. Copyright © 2018 by Brenda Rufener. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art by Helen Crawford-White
Cover design by Joel Tippie
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-257111-3
Where I Live Page 24
