Home is Where You Are (4 page)

What the hell was
that? Twenty fucking questions? Well I guess I deserved it since I was staring at her tits for the first two minutes.

I would have stayed longer. It was warm
, and talking is a nice change, but as soon as she started asking about my parents, I was out of there.

That c
hick needs a reality check. Did she honestly think I would spill my guts to someone like her? I’m sure she lives her life as her entire high school watches and adores her.

It’s still early, but I head over to the Y anyway. It’s been two days. Luck has to get back on my side.
I want a hot shower more than anything, and I’d almost kill to sleep on something other than the ground at the trestle.

I sit on the opposite side of the woods and wait for
eight-thirty. If I had to guess, it’s close to seven. The curb is cold compared to the nice warm chair I was in at the soup kitchen.

“Hey.”

Wanda sits next to me a scarf tied around her neck, covering her tattoo.

“Hey,” I say
, looking away from her and back to the stairs.

“It’s Dean, right?” Her voice is rough
. Not like the girl from the soup kitchen whose voice was soft and sweet, completely void of hardship.

I
contemplate answering her, tugging at the strings on my hoodie. It’s just my name. “Yeah.”

“I’m Wanda.”

“I know.” A gust of wind whips by, so I shove my hands into my pockets. My skin is so dry my fingers look like the corpse inside the wrapping of a mummy.

Wanda adjusts her scarf so it covers more of her neck.
“Sorry you didn’t get in last night.”

My head snaps up
, eyebrows bunching in the center of my forehead. “Why do you care? You got in.”

“
Because I can’t help but think about all the people who got stuck outdoors for the night.”

“Why?”

She shrugs, pulling her jacket snug around her. “If it was me out in the cold, I’d want someone to be worried.” Sadness engulfs her features, but she shakes it off. “So what’s your story?”

What is this?
The night that everyone wants me to cut my brain open and let everything out? Not happening.

“What’s
your
story?”

“My parents didn’t like the fact
that I’m a lesbian. Once they realized church and therapy weren’t working, they kicked me out.”

My eyes shoot wide.
“They kicked you out for being gay?”

“
Pretty shitty, huh?”

At times I
feel like my parents abandoned me, but they wouldn’t have kicked me out because of my sexual orientation. What happened to me was out of their hands. For Christ’s sakes, she is their flesh and blood. That should matter more than who she wants to screw.

I take my hands out of my pockets and rub my fingers together, breathing into them. “Hell yeah it is. How could they do that?”

She shrugs, a sadness overtaking her tough
-girl exterior. “I ask myself that every day.”

I can’t blame her.
“And what do you tell yourself?”

“I haven’t come up with an answ
er yet.” Tears fill the corners of her eyes. She swipes at her lids and clears her throat. “It’s okay. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m not a good person. I’m going to get my GED, go to college, and become a successful writer. I’ll prove them wrong.”

“How do you plan on
paying for that?” It’s nice to have goals, but living in a fairy tale is setting yourself up for disappointment.

“Ther
e are a lot of scholarships out there, and I’m working at McDonald’s. I set up a bank account and have direct deposit. Instead of spending the money for a place to stay I come here.”

“And what about the nights you get
lotto’d out?”

“I do what I assume you do. Find a nice clearing in the woods, or a spot under a bridge. I’ve slept all over this damn city.”

“If you have money why don’t you just stay at a hotel?” Now
I’m
the one asking twenty questions.

“Too expensive.
When the temperature drops below thirty, I may change my mind, but trust me, there isn’t much in my savings account. I’d be broke after a couple of weeks.”

“Didn’t you have friends back home?”

“I did, but all of their families were religious like mine, and when I came out I was the devil’s spawn. So the chance of getting one of them to let me crash is slim to none.” She nudges my side with her elbow. “You know, for someone that is so unwilling to answer my questions, you sure have a lot of your own.”

I shrug.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. It’s
kinda like my own therapy. Know what I mean?”

Her words resonate as I think back to the girl I blew off at the soup kitchen. It was nice to have someone who wanted to talk to me. But with
the girl it wouldn’t have been the same as it is with Wanda. Next time I go to the soup kitchen, she’ll feel obligated to always say hi to me, start up a conversation, and I’ll become her own personal charity case. No thanks.

“Yeah.
I do.”

“So are you going to tell me about yourself now?”
she asks. I pull my hood tighter across the sides of my face. “Didn’t think so, but I’ll wear you down.

I d
on’t realize how long we’d been sitting and talking until Maggie appears on the steps. I get up and sign in, Wanda right beside me.

I hand her the pen. She signs her name then hands it off to the next person. She turns to me and smiles.
“Trust me, Dean. You’ll be happy to know someone for a change.”

Problem is I don’t trust anyone
, and I definitely don’t want to
know
someone.

After the library I walk around
and contemplate knocking on doors, offering to rake leaves for whatever people will give me, but it’s a weekday. People are at work. I’ll just wait for Saturday.

By five o’clock I head over to The Bagel Hole.
Last year I just happened to be walking behind the building when I saw how they toss the bagels that didn’t sell.

A man t
hrew an entire garbage bag away. Shocked the hell out of me. Once the guy disappeared, I jumped into the dumpster, and right on top in the bag was a ton of bagels. I was desperate. I hadn’t eaten in days. The little bit of money I usually had was gone, the soup kitchen was closed and I hadn’t been able to get into the Y for days.

I
grabbed the first bagel and took the biggest bite I could manage. I still remember the combination of spicy cinnamon and sweet raisin. Pure heaven to my taste buds.

T
o this day Marv, the owner, still holds a cinnamon raisin bagel on the side in case I show up.

“Dean my man,” Marv says as I make my way around the dumpster. He reaches out and greets me with a hug.

“What’s going on?”

“Glad you showed up.
Got you your cinnamon raisin.” He hands me a paper bag, and I place it inside my backpack. I’ll wait until the stomach pains are too much to take before indulging.

Marv’s dark eyes widen.
“What the hell happened to your face?”

Here we go. “I walked into a door knob. Those things
just jump out at you.”

“The hell you did.” Marv grabs my face and examines my lip before his eyes settle on the cut above my eyebrow.

“I got jumped the other night. My fault, really.”

“Is that why I haven’t seen you in a few days?”

I glance away. I know what’s coming, which is exactly why I’ve been avoiding him.

“You best answer me
, boy.”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“How many times do I tell you to come to me? How many?”

All the time.
But I don’t want his help. I’ve been doing this long enough. And once I accept it, I’ll expect it. I’ll become weak. Vulnerable. I just can’t let that happen.

I shrug and try not to wince when pain shoots up my abdomen
. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Marv cocks his eyebrow
. “Mmmhmm.”

“It’s not,” I repeat.

“If you say so.”

I
take a spot on one of the milk crates beside the dumpster, glancing over my shoulder every few minutes. Call it paranoia or whatever you want, but after getting the shit beat out of me, I’m even more aware of my surroundings. I always have an eye over my shoulder. Which is probably why I ran face first into that girl.

“Thanks,”
I say, pulling on my backpack strap.

“So
other than getting your ass kicked what else have you been up to?” Marv asks, sitting on the crate across from me.

“Same shit.”
There really isn’t much to do. The highlight of my day—though I would never admit it—is coming here. Pretending to be normal as if Marv is just an old friend I come to bullshit with.

“You get into the Y last night?”

“Yeah.” The few times I admitted not getting into the Y, he got mad. Told me I should have called him. He made me take his number just in case I was in trouble. I keep it behind the picture of my family. “How’s the wife?” I ask before Marv can drill me further.

“A pain in the ass,” he laughs for a second, “but God knows I love her.”

“What about your daughter?”

“You mean the devil child? Yeah
, she all right I guess. Driving me crazy that’s for sure. She’s fifteen and thinks she’s twenty-five. I got a call from her teacher yesterday who told me she cut class. When I confronted her she had the nerve to tell me that she just didn’t feel like going.”

I laugh and Marv gives me a dirty look.

“Cut her some slack,” I say. “I’m sure you were no angel when you were fifteen.”

“
That’s what scares me,” he says with a smirk. Marv’s told me all about his past. Drugs and grand theft auto were a huge part.

I
shake my head and smile. “You turned out fine, and she isn’t nearly half as bad as you were.”

“That I know of.”

We bullshit a little longer, but the sun is starting to set and the line at the soup kitchen will only get longer. “I gotta split.”

“And where exactly do you have to be?”

“Soup kitchen. Looking forward to a hot meal.”

Marv points
a finger at me. “I offer you hot meals all the time, and all you ever want is that damn cinnamon raisin.”

“That’s because I know it’s good.”

“What you trying to say? You don’t think I’m capable of making a good hot meal?”

I pat Marv on the shoulder.
“I didn’t say it.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“Excuse me?”

Marv hitches his thumb over his shoulder.
“Get your ass inside. I’m making you dinner.”

I hold my hands up.
“Marv, it’s not necessary. I was kidding.”

“Don’t make me fatten your top lip
, too. Inside.”

I go to argue, but then I think of my last time at the soup kitchen. The twenty fucking questions I endured. Granted the girl was hot, but hot or not, I’m not in the mood tonight. I
suck up my pride and head inside.

Two hours later, filled with some of the best cooking I’ve had
in a long time, I wave goodbye to Marv.

I’m not even a
few feet from him when he yells out to me.

“If you don’t get into the Y
, call me. I’ll come get you. It’s getting too damn cold to be sleeping outside. I don’t need a frostbitten teenager on my list of worries. You hear me, boy?”

“Loud and clear.”

“You better.”

“I will.”
I won’t
.

I a
ppreciate the sentiment. Marv doesn’t know this, but he’s my inspiration. He changed his life around. First mopping floors at The Bagel Hole, then working behind the counter, saving every penny, until one day the owner decided to sell the business and give Marv the company for what he had in his bank account.

If he
did it why can’t I?