Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless (22 page)

"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 like 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.

"Who's hosting the party?"

She laughs. "Hosting?"

"You know what I mean. Where's the party?"

"At Tony's."

Okay, that's more than enough information for me. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Why not?"

"Because I get a bad feeling about those guys."

"Oh, Adele. Why are you so judgmental? They're nice guys. And it'll be fun."

"Fun?" I glance at her. "Tell me, how do you describe fun?"

"You know ... some laughs, some friends, some drinks."

"I can go with the laughs and friends -I mean, if they're real friends-but I'll pass on the drinks."

"Fine, you can pass. But you can at least come to the party."

"I don't want to go, Cybil."

"Oh, Adele!" She folds her arms across her front and slumps down in the passenger seat like she's about four years old.

"Sorry, Cybil. I just don't want to. And I don't think you should go either." I'm pulling into the River Woods parking lot now. This time I park in the guest section.

She jerks around and stares at me. "Are you telling me what I can or cannot do now?"

I turn off the ignition and sigh. "I'm just saying I think it's a mistake to keep hanging with people like Tony and those other guys.

"You are telling me what to do!" Her voice is getting shrill.

"I'm trying to be a friend to you, Cybil. And I'm older and I just don't think you should go. Maybe we can do something else and-"

"What are you, Adele, my mother?"

Now for some reason this just totally irks me. "Look," I say in a sharp voice, "I'm trying to help you, but if you're going to act like an idiot ..." - I hold up my hands like I'm done - "then don't come running back to me when you get in trouble."

"So that's it?" She's glaring at me. "You'll be my friend as long as I do what you want me to do? If you can control me, you'll help me?"

"I don't want to control - "

"You're just like my grandma, Adele. An old stick-in-the-mud."

"Fine," I snap at her. "At least I know how you feel."