Street Girl

03 | lucy

When he offers me a lump of navy blue, I unball it to find a jacket with a forty-seven on the arm, WEXLER on the back in thick white letters.

"Is this your name?" I ask. "Why would I want a coat with your name on it?"

His face flushes. "Sorry, I dunno. Let me grab another."

"No, it's fine." The insulation is velvety to the touch. I'll be ten times warmer out there in this. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

We fall quiet. A bowl of fruit on the counter stocked with oranges and bananas makes my stomach growl. Really, I would eat dog food at this point. I'm sure he would let me have something if I asked, but the question is stuck in my throat. I hate asking for things and I hate feeling like a charity case. I would rather just take it and slip away without a word, but he keeps watching me.

"Do you like hot chocolate?" Junior asks with glazed-over eyes.

I pause, thrown-off by the question. "I love hot chocolate."

"You want some? It'll only take a minute. You can come sit if you want."

He goes to the cupboard and removes two mugs. I should really get out of here, but after the night I've had, I can't say no to calories. Maybe the sugar will stifle my hunger.

I leave my boots by the door and help myself to one of the stools alongside the bar. A newspaper rests on the counter, open to a half-filled out crossword puzzle. It must be the dad's. He looks like such a well-adjusted guy, I'm shocked at how scratchy the handwriting is.

"Marshmallows?" Junior offers.

"Sure."

He has a nice voice. It's smooth, the type that probably sings well. I should stop calling him Junior—he has a name. Elliot. I guess that suits him, too.

Spinning on the stool, I grow more comfortable as each moment passes. I've gotten too used to apartments and abandoned buildings, so being in here is strangely nice.

A mug appears in front of me, steam lifting from it. Elliot leans across the counter and says, "So, are you like... homeless?"

It's irritating how he steps over his words, like he's scared of offending me or something. But as our eyes connect, my frustration dissipates like smoke, because his face is a mask of genuine, innocent curiosity.

A nice guy. I haven't met many in my life, but a sheltered boy like Elliot would be a good person. It's not a bad thing, obviously. But it's different.

"I'm not homeless homeless." I stir my drink with a spoon until the marshmallows make a gooey swirl. "I'm between places right now. I'm a street rat."

"Well, where do you stay?"

I glare at him. "Around."

"All right." He raises his hands. "I was just asking."

Our eyes remain locked. He looks so... uncorrupt. Borderline angelic. There might as well be a damn halo on his head.

"I do have a friend's place I sometimes stay at," I say, "but some nights he doesn't want me there, so I have to improvise."

"What's that mean?"

"You know, find somewhere else to go. A bed is a bed, right?"

He sips his hot chocolate. "Like where?"

Find somewhere else to go. Find other beds to sleep in. Come on, Junior, you should get it.

But I don't have the heart to say what I mean, so I tell him, "Abandoned buildings and stuff. I'm in the west end a lot. There are so many old houses over there, and some of them are pretty decent inside still."