xxv. ORPHAN

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 SCHOOL RETURNED AND ANY SPARE TIME EVAPORATED. Art projects were completed on the morning and afternoon bus. The bus to work, the bus home. Math work was done between trips to tables and the kitchen. History wasn't learned, English was left unread. There was hardly anytime to sit down and enjoy a moment alone.

The money earned was barely enough to eat. But she still busted her ass, holding out hope that it would meet expectations. Winter melted to spring. March was hardly spring, it was gray and miserable. Fourth quarter was a daunting perspective. Charlotte hardly cared about school, she was a senior and wasn't going to college. All she had to worry about was getting her diploma and not going homeless or hungry. 

Art class was the closest thing to time alone. It offered freedom from the stresses of the real world. She didn't have to think, she just could do as her mind told her. She could relax her wrists and allow it to easily flow along the white canvas. Though the anxieties of the world didn't seem to be present on Charlotte's mind, her self portrait disagreed with that hypothesis.

Blacks, yellows and blues composed her face. There was hardly a hint of a smile on the painting's face. 

"Charlotte?" The soft tone of the guidance counselor, Mrs. Simmons, called, standing at the door of the studio, "May I borrow you for a minute?"

The blonde quickly cleaned up her station, walking towards the graying counselor. She was led to the principal's office, where two people who looked like social workers or bankers, Brooklynn, and Brooklynn's family waited.

They were led inside the and everyone sat down at once. The principal and the two tight-lipped people spoke, delivering the news and Charlotte could hardly hear. The news that she was evicted from her home. The news that she was living with Brooklynn and her family until she graduated, even though she was eighteen. 

The young girl knew she was an orphan, but hearing she was homeless finally made it make sense. Without her mother being dead, she knew she was never seeing her again. Orphans were always depicted as small children who were dirty and full of hope. Charlotte was eighteen, perfectly average for the most part, and filled with despair. 

It took less than a week for Charlotte Porter to not only move into Brooklynn's house, but to hide the family keepsakes from being repossessed by the bank. While she didn't need to work at the diner anymore, she still did. It was a distraction from all that had been taken away. For just a few hours, she was a pretty face with red lips in a cute little uniform. At the diner, Charlotte was Charlie, your typical, wholesome American girl. She was her own Barbie doll.

One day a man walked in. He was as forgettable as the next person, but he meant business. He was all sorts of zany colors all blended into one man with a shitty Beatles haircut and a shittier beard. He took one look at Charlotte's reddish brown roots and smile, knowing who she was right off the bat. 

"Hi, honey, how can I help you today?" Charlie asked, pulling the pen out of her ponytail

"I believe you can, Charlotte Porter."

THE COLOR RED | DALLAS WINSTONWhere stories live. Discover now