The Barefoot Girl

Chapter 2

I burst through my front door after getting home from school. My little brother, Liam, jerks his head up at my sudden, loud entrance. "Well, hi!" he exclaims, in the cutest voice a nine-year-old boy ever had. I laugh. "Hey bud," I say coming over and tussling his shaggy blonde hair. He looks up at me with that annoyed but amused look I think everyone with siblings can understand.

"Where's mom?" I ask.

He shrugs his shoulders and continues to color in his Barney picture.

"Gee, thanks for your help," I remark sarcastically.

He sticks his tongue out at me, but covers it up with the smile that always melts my heart.

I love all of my siblings, but I feel especially attached to Liam. I think it's because he's younger than me, so I've gotten to watch him grow up; feeling like a second mom sometimes. Plus I'm more protective now...

Benjamin, my older brother is twenty-five now and the twins, Megan and Michelle are 17.

"I'm here!" My mom's voice travels to the kitchen and she enters from the next room.

"Mom!" I exclaim. "Can I talk to you for a second?" She gives me a suspicious look.

"What do you want, honey? Did something happen at school?" I

I laugh to myself. I must get my "assuming the worst" trait from her.

"No, mom," I reply. "School was as normal as any school day, ever. I just..."

I pause and she awkwardly stares at me.

I'm suddenly hesitant to bring up "the barefoot girl" and I'm not sure why. Mom raises her eyebrows, then smiles rather mischievously.

"Spill," she says. "Did you win the lottery, is it a boy...?" I groan at the latter comment and mom laughs.

"No, mom I was just wondering... You know that... ummm... Homeless girl that's always on the side of the road and never wears any shoes?"

She looks surprised that this is the question that comes out of my mouth.

"Well, sure," she replies. "Everyone in town knows her by now I suspect."

I nod and say, "Yeah so...
Do you... Do you know what happened to her?" I fidget uncomfortably, not sure why this is so awkward to bring up. Mom walks into our living room, (which is attached to the kitchen; no walls or doors), sits down, and pats the space next to her. I walk in and sit where she wanted me to.

"Honey, that's something no one really knows."
    

"Well, someone has to know!" I argue. Someone had to feed her..."
    
Mom looks at me and says, "Bridget she probably just gets a sandwich from the soup kitchen every day."
    
"Oh," I mumble, embarrassed that I didn't think of this before.
    
"Well, why doesn't anyone do anything? She's been living on the streets alone for... Who knows how long!"
    
Mom runs her hand through my long brown hair. "Sadly, people don't care that much."
    
I can't help but find that ironic coming from the family that's never done anything for her ourselves; not even tried to give her some old shoes. I guess we're lower middle class and four kids at home is a lot... But... We used to be able to care for six... When Benjamin still lived at home and... And...
    
Tears start welling up in my eyes involuntarily. Gosh. I think. Don't do this, don't cry again. Not in front of mom. My train of thought has already reopened my own wound and I don't need to rip apart mom's heart by brining up the awful memory.