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twilightx28

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            It was so dark out here. I didn’t even understand how it happened. One moment it’s “It’s okay honey, we’ll get through this” and the next it’s “Get the hell out of my house”. Moms were so confusing sometimes.

            I hoped that she would come and find me; that would come after me and tell me it was all okay and she was sorry and that we could fix it. But she was so angry. And that was 5 months ago. I gave up after night 2.

            Now, I’m sitting on some dark, cold, dimly lit side street in the middle of God knows where. No money, no food, no clothes. I haven’t had a bath in the whole 5 months I’ve been gone…I haven’t change my clothes either.

            I probably reeked, but I’ve been living with it for a little while so, I really don’t know anymore.

            I looked up and down the street for a car; the car. Even after giving up, it was a force of habit to still look for that dark blue Jag. It was impossible not to. I mean, if you were 14 years old and your mother just kicked you out while your siblings watched, what would you do if she never came after you? I didn’t see anything. Not that I was expecting to. I dropped my head back down to stare at the concrete between my legs.

            Someone was coming down the street. I heard the footsteps on the quiet street. I looked back and down the street where the noise was coming from. It’s funny. After 5 months of almost complete silence, I think footsteps are noise.

            It was a guy. Kinda tall, I guess. I couldn’t really tell from so far away. He was dressed well; that much I could tell under the dim street lamps.

            Why would I guy like that be here where all the hobos hang? I thought.

            That’s also kinda funny. 5 months and I already consider myself a hobo. I give up way too easily. I mean, for all I know, my mom could be looking for me anywhere. But I hitch-hiked out of the state so she probably didn’t think to look for me in…Where am I anyway?

            The man was closer now. I saw that he was only a teenager. Maybe almost 19, possibly younger, I don’t know.

            He spotted me and slowed down a bit.

I expected him to do what most people do when they see me now. Cross the street and keep walking. This kid didn’t look like he was from this side of the tracks anyway.

            But I was wrong. He slowed up a little bit more, but then made a bee line for me. He was maybe 6 feet away when he spoke.

            “Do you live out here?” he asked. His voice was kind of rough, like he was still going through puberty or something.

            I looked at him. He stopped maybe 2 feet away. He spoke again.

            “I guess that answers my question. How long has it been since you’ve had a bath, anyway?”

            I looked at him in shock and anger. How dare he think he’s so much better than me? In a way I guess he kind of was, but it was still so rude to tell me I ned to shower. Didn’t he think I knew that already?

            I still haven’t talked to him yet.

            “Are you actually going to answer me, or are you gonna stare?”

            “Who the hell do you think you are?” I snapped at him. I stood up and found I was a good 5 inches shorter, but height didn’t matter to me anymore.      

            “He scoffed. “Typical runaway. Thinking that because you’re homeless people need to take pity on you.”

            I cocked my arm back and was just about to punch him square in the jaw when he caught my hand.

            “Before you hit me, can I at least get your name so I know who I’m reporting to the police when I file physical harassment charges?”

            My hand went slack so he let it go and laughed. “Gets ‘em every time.”

            “Who are you anyway?” I studied his features. He wasn’t particularly good-looking. Not horrible, but not that bad. I finally looked at his eyes and he was smiling with them.

            “I was you 3 years ago, only I was meaner.”

            The shocked slayed out across my face before I couls stop it.

            “No way,” I said. “You were kicked out too?” Oops.

            “Kicked out? So you’re not a runaway, huh? Soory. My fisrt assumption everytime I see a kid on the street. How old are you anyway? 16? 17?”

            Was he nuts? “I’m 14,” I told him.

            He whistled. “Je-sus.” He pronounced it with 2 syllables. “And you were kicked out? By who? When?”

            “My Mom 5 months ago. I hitched-hiked here.” He whistled again.

            “You don’t even live here?”

            I shook my head. “New Haven, Connecticut. But you still haven’t answered my question. Not actually. Who are you?”

            He looked me up and down, probably still not believing I was only 14.

            “I’m David.”

            “So does David have a last name?”

            He chuckled a bit. “Not officially, no, he doesn’t. So who are you?”

            “Andrea.”

            “Do you have a last name?”

            “Yup.”

            “Can I know it?”

            “Not until I get yours. Then we’ll see.”

            He laughed again.

            We stood there for a couple of minutes and he just looked at me. Realization dawned on his face.

            “Oh God…,” he muttered. “You’re Andrea Wrythen.”

I snapped my face up to his in nervousness. “How do you know that?”

            “Your face is plastered all over the news.”

            “It’s what?!” I basically yelled. He cringed at the shrillness of my voice.

            “Your family,” he said. “They’re looking for you. They want you home.”