“Eighteen.”
She’s maybe five foot one or two. She’s got the frame of a twelve-year-old but that can happen even to an adult when you’re malnourished. However, her still chubby youthful cheeks tell me this isn’t just malnourishment. She’s a baby.
“I’m guessing twelve?”
“Fuck you! I’m sixteen.”
“No you’re not,” I counter. “You’re young enough that your potty mouth is extra offensive.”
She stops chewing at that. Frowns and swallows what’s in her mouth. “You’re not my boss.”
“Nope. Just stating facts.”
“Sorry.”
Okay. She’s not lost yet. My heart feels less heavy. I pull out the remaining cash in my hoodie pocket. I carry cash at all times, even running at the crack of ass, for this exact reason. I hold up the three twenties. “I’ll give you this no matter what, but I’d like an honest answer about your age.”
“What month is it?”
“October. The twenty-first.”
“I’ll be fifteen next month,” she admits. “But obviously I’m mature for my age. Now pay up.”
“Yeah. This life will do that.” I hand her the cash. She takes it quickly but with less of a swipe than the donut.
“I won’t use it for gross stuff like drugs or anything,” she promises.
I look around the street. “Where you living? You got a camp somewhere? With others?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. Not really. Sometimes this crazy lady Ethel lets me hang out with her under the bridge, when she’s not arguing with the voices in her head. She’s got a tarp and some blankets. But the cops like to raid camps and I don’t wanna get nabbed. I amnotgoing back to the system.”
She’s not good at this. She shouldn’t be telling me any details. It makes me think she hasn’t actually been on the street very long. I nod. I know that visceral fear and hearing it in her words floods me with unwanted memories. “I know a place. It’s like a boardinghouse. Just for kids.”
“Good for you.”
“Mac, it’s different.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I researched it. I volunteer there,” I explain and a guy in a business suit marches by, giving us a curious but disgusted glance. Man, I fucking hate people sometimes.
“You researched it?” Her tone is dismissive. “Yeah, lots of crap looks good on paper. The whole system is great on paper. It’s a joke. I’m not going back to it.”
“This is private. Not state run,” I explain. “It’s good.”
“Have fun volunteering,” she says and turns to walk away again.
I fall in step beside her. “You should check it out. It’s in Brooklyn.”
“Uh-huh.” She is so not buying what I am selling.
“You can’t keep living like you’re living,” I tell her and I know it’s going to annoy her, to say the least.
She glares at me. “Fuck you. I can take care of myself.”
“I’ll get a pamphlet on the place and give it to you. So you can read about it,” I offer, refusing to back down. “I’ll meet you tomorrow with the info. Sound good?”
“Not interested,” she replies.
