Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless (17 page)

I suppose I had hoped that someone would chase after me and stop me. Maybe even Jayden, although I don't think he saw me leave. Or if he did, he pretended not to. And I'm sure he's heard the whole story by now anyway. At first I walked slowly, hoping that perhaps Isabella would rethink her harsh dismissal of me and feel guilty. Maybe she'd even apologize or ask if there was some way to help me, but no one came to check on me.

So, as usual, I am on my own. And really, isn't this what I deserve? But as I continue walking aimlessly down the busy street, I grow painfully aware of two things. First of all, these fake Christian Louboutins are crippling. Second of all, I have no place to stay tonight. Right now my purse, with my van keys and all my money and my cell phone, is in Isabella's bedroom. And short of hitchhiking, I have no way to get back there tonight. To say this is freaky is a huge understatement.

I pass by a coffee shop and consider stopping in to give my poor feet a rest and attempt to figure out my problems, except I have no money for a cup of coffee. I even consider panhandling, but I'm afraid I'll be mistaken as a hooker in my sequined dress and fake diamonds.

"Hey, good looking," a guy calls out from across the street. "What'cha doing tonight? Wanna go to a party?"

Ignoring his skanky invitation - not the first one I've received-I suddenly realize I've actually wandered into what is known as the "bad side of town." Common sense says to turn around and walk in the opposite direction, but my feet are killing me and there's no way I'll return to that hotel to face my "friends." Besides, I know now that they were never really my friends. It was simply a game I'd been playing. A game I couldn't possibly win. For a "smart" girl, I've been incredibly stupid these past few weeks.

I walk a bit farther, just to get away from the party-invite dude, and finally when my feet can't take another step, I sit on a cement bench by the bus stop. I have never felt so lost ... so alone. The cold of the bench seeps into me as I stare into the traffic moving along the street. People with lives, going places, riding in cars, on their way to somewhere - it all feels so foreign to me now. Like I'm an alien visiting from another planet. Like I've been plunked down here to observe, but all I feel is a vast kind of empty loneliness ... like there is no hope ... like I will always be on the outside of everything.

Finally, I can't take it. The idea of jumping out in front of one of the fast-moving vehicles, like the big UPS truck whizzing by, suddenly becomes very appealing. I watch as the headlights and taillights whoosh by me. I try to imagine whether or not I would feel anything when I was struck. Would it hurt? Or would it happen so fast-a quick end to all this suffering-that I would feel nothing?

I wonder about my so-called friends. If they heard about my tragic demise in the news, would they feel sorry or guilty? More than likely, they wouldn't even care. Or perhaps they'd simply chalk it up to the result of my imposter lifestyle, saying "she got what she deserved."

Maybe my mom would be sad ... at least I hope she would. That is, if she ever discovered what happened to me. And hopefully she'd feel guilty too. Because isn't this whole mess her fault too? Doesn't she bear some responsibility for this tragedy ... my so-called life? I lean over now, burying my face in my hands, letting the tears flow freely. I cry until my throat burns and my head throbs. Over and over I ask myself, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?

After a while, I'm sure my tears are all spent, and I sit up straight and take in a deep breath. I wipe my wet cheeks with the backs of my hands. I am not a quitter. I am a fighter ... a survivor ... and I will not give up.

"Are you all right?"

I look up to see an elderly woman gazing down at me with gentle eyes. At least I think she's an old woman. But as I study her more closely, I realize she's probably more like middle-aged or even my mom's age. And she smells of strong alcohol.

I kind of shrug. "Yeah ... I'm okay."

"Why were you crying?" She sits beside me, and sticking her hands in the pockets of an oversized coat, she peers curiously at me.

I sigh, wondering if I should just make something up. But at the same time, I'm so sick of lies. As painful as tonight has been, there is a tiny spark of relief in knowing that my web of lies has finally come to an end.

"Why are you all dressed up?" She frowns at me. "You a working girl?"

I consider this. Does she really think I'm a prostitute?

"I'm warning you, this is Marla's street, and if you think you're gonna work here, you better talk to Marla first, 'cuz I've seen that girl get mad. And it ain't a pretty sight neither."

I firmly shake my head. "I am not a hooker."

"'hat's a good thing, 'cuz take it from me, it'll kill you for sure. I know more girls who go down that road and never come back. It's a dead-end street if you ask me."

I pull Isabella's mother's velvet cape more closely around me. Somehow I need to get this garment back to her, all in one piece and in good shape. And I need to get the dress back to Genevieve too. For some reason these two things feel important to me.

"So, why are you all dressed up then?" she persists.

With nothing to hide, I simply uncork the bottle of my life and pour out the whole story for her. All of it. From how my mom abandoned me, to my rich friends and my phony life, to living in a van and working in a nursing home. I get clear to this evening and how my purse and keys and cell phone are all stuck in my ex-friend's house.

"Why don't you just go get your stuff? Your purse and belongings, why not just go get them?"

I consider this.

"It's your stuff, ain't it?"

I nod.

"Then you go get it. I'm telling you, if you don't stand up for yourself and your own stuff, no one else will." Then she launches into a story about how her ex-boyfriend took all her belongings while she was gone one day and how he never gave anything back. And while her story is different from mine, what she's saying makes sense. Unfortunately, I don't have a clue as to how to do this.

She pulls a bottle out from inside her coat, unscrews the lid, takes a swig, then holds the bottle out to me like she thinks I'd like some too.

"No thank you." I force a smile. "I'm not a drinker."

She shakes a dirty finger in my face. "Not yet you ain't. But trust me, you will be. You stay out here like this . . . and you will be."

I want to argue this point, but it's pointless. Besides, this woman's been a good listener tonight. I stick out my hand to her. "My name's Adele."

She puts the bottle back inside her coat, then takes my hand and shakes it. "Nice to meet ya, Adele. My name's Dolly. Just like Dolly Parton." She grins and pats her chest. "Except I ain't exactly endowed like Ms. Parton." She chuckles. "She's got more money too.

I just nod, still wondering what I should do tonight.

"If you need help, you should go to the mission."

"The mission?"

She tips her head on down the street. "Couple blocks that way. They got food and beds and they say they want to help folks." She lets out a loud cackle of a laugh. "Except you gotta pay for their help."

"They expect you to pay?" I frown. "What if you're broke?"

"You don't pay in money." She shakes her head. "No, you pay with your ears. You gotta listen to the preacher do his preaching."

"Oh ..."

She nods as she reaches into her coat and removes the bottle again, taking another long swig.

"Do you stay there?"

She shakes her head as she replaces the bottle. "Nope. Not me.

"Why not?"

"They check your clothes." She grins to reveal a set of darkened teeth. "I don't go where my bottle ain't welcome."

"So, where do you stay?"

"Here and there." She stands slowly to her feet, wobbling a bit from side to side. "And that's where I'm going now."

"Take care, Dolly."

"You too." She looks puzzled. "What's your name again, girl?"

"Adele."

She smiles. "Pretty name ... pretty girl. You take care too, Adele." Then she slowly staggers back in the direction I just came from. I stand too. But instead of walking back toward the hotel, I head the other way. If there really is a mission, I want to find out just what kind of help they really can offer. After a couple of blocks, my feet are throbbing again, and I'm wondering if Dolly got her directions mixed up. But after a couple more blocks, I see a lit-up sign that says Jesus Saves! I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but my feet are so sore that I intend to find out. Maybe Jesus can save me from being permanently crippled by these brutal shoes.

"I'm sorry," a man tells me as he opens the door. "Dinner is over, miss.

"I'm not here for dinner." I study him, trying to determine what sort of role he plays here. He doesn't exactly strike me as a bum. But then how would I know? He has short gray hair, is cleanly shaved and neatly dressed. A number of other people of various ages are milling about in what seems to be a dining room behind him. And judging by their raggedy and unkempt appearances, I'm guessing they actually do belong here.

I can tell by this man's creased brow that he's trying to figure me out too. "Are you here to volunteer then?" he asks cheerfully.

I force a small smile. "I wish I were, but the truth is I need help."

He nods. "What kind of help?"

I press my lips together. Is this a big mistake? What if someone here tries to turn me in to Children's Services for being underage? Maybe they have a legal responsibility to do something like that.

"Are you a prostitute?" he asks in a surprisingly gentle tone.

I can't believe I've been asked this twice in one night, not to mention the proposition from the party dude. But then I figure it must be due to my slightly glitzy outfit, that and being out on the streets alone. I will not take it personally.

"No, I'm a homeless person who was trying to pretend to be something she's not. But it didn't work out too well."

He nods in a knowing way. "I'm Pastor Roland. Why don't we go to my office and talk?"

I follow Pastor Roland to a small office, and he leaves the door open. I can hear the others milling about where I noticed one of the long tables was set up with coffee and fresh fruit. "Let's start with your name," he suggests.

"Adele."

His eyes light up. "Really?"

I'm not sure how to respond. Does he think I'm lying? "Yes. My name is really Adele." I purposely leave off my last name for fear he might turn me in to the authorities.

He smiles now. "Adele was my wife's name."

"Oh . . ." I nod. "Was?"

"She died about nine years ago. That's one reason I've been volunteering here. Helps to fill some lonely nights for me. So tell me, Adele, what brings you here tonight?"

For the second time, I spill the beans. And everything I say is true ... well, except for my age. I would be honest about this, but I just can't risk getting stuck in foster care again.

"But you see, I do have a job and I plan to save up enough to rent something cheap-maybe just a room. It's just that I'm kind of stuck tonight. If I could just get my things from my friend's house, I'll be all right. The main thing is, I cannot miss going to work tomorrow." I sigh. "Without my job ... I'm sunk."

He seems relieved. "That's simple enough. I can give you a ride on my way home. My shift ends at nine." He glances at the clock on the wall. "And that's less than thirty minutes."

Suddenly I feel a rush of apprehension. Do I really want to get into a car with a stranger? This goes against everything I've been taught since childhood. And yet, what are my options here? To wander the streets dressed like a hooker?

"But first I need to put away the coffee things," he tells me as he stands.

"Want any help?"

"Sure." He grins. "I never refuse help."

As I help him put away the coffee things, which for some reason must be locked in a cabinet, he talks to me about his volunteer job here at the mission. As it turns out, a number of the local pastors take turns working here. "I volunteer on Fridays," he tells me as we wipe down the kitchen countertops. "I come here in the morning, do a bit of counseling during the day, then I give the sermon at dinner."

"Oh, yeah, I heard that's how people pay for their meals here," I say as I recall Dolly's warning.

He chuckles. "I suppose that's what it feels like to some of my listeners. Truth is, it's a nice setup for me, too. I always practice the sermon I plan to give on the following Sunday. Not that the crowd is the same exactly. But in some ways, they're not that much different."

Before long it's nine and I no longer feel worried about this man's character. Just being around him, hearing him react to others, watching them interact with him ... I think I'm totally safe. Still, as we're driving across town in his musty-smelling older sedan, I'm a little uneasy. But I think it's related to everything that's gone down tonight. It's like my brain is getting fuzzy, and it's all starting to feel a little surreal.

"Your friend must be quite wealthy," he says as he pulls up in front of Isabella's big house.

"Her parents seem to be."

"And have you thought about living with them?"

I just shake my head. "I'm pretty sure this girl isn't really my friend anymore, not after what happened tonight."

"Too bad." He sighs. "That's what I'd call a fair-weather friend."

I shrug and reach for the door handle.

"Now, you want me to wait for you, right? And take you to where your van is parked?"

I study his face. He really does have kind eyes. And yet I've heard that some sociopaths do too. Is it possible this sweet old guy will drive down some lonely road and slit my throat? On the other hand, I can't exactly walk back to the high school. Still, if I'm going to do this-survive on my own-I need to be street smart.

"I suppose my friend's parents will offer me a ride," I say in what I hope sounds like an offhand way and not an outright lie. "But I'll just tell them I'd rather have a ride with you."

As I walk up to the house, I realize I probably sounded pretty lame, but it makes me feel better, like I'm warning Pastor Roland, if he really is a pastor, that someone knows where I am tonight ... who I'm with.