Micki. Where do you live? Are you lost?”
“Avalon,” I answer her. “And no, I’m not lost. I’m fucking homeless.” Because that place back there—the trailer with Patricia—it’s not a home. It’s never been a home.
Micki slowly looks down my body, taking in my clothes and shoeless feet. I avoid her knowing gaze. She’s got that look about her—the one that tells me she can see right through me. I’ve had a couple of teachers like that but not another chick my age.
“Rough night, huh, kiddo?” she asks.
I grit my teeth. “Stop calling me that.”
“Why?” Getting down on her knees, Micki urges one of my arms over her shoulder. “It’s what you are.”
“No, it isn’t.” I hiss as she forces me up onto my legs and my feet feel the pain of pushing against the pavement once more.
She laughs. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. You’re lucky I saw you—normally, I don’t run this way in the mornings.”
Micki starts chattering on and as I let her half carry, half push me to wherever we’re going, I let my mind wander. Would foster care be better? I think. Should I tell a teacher about Patricia when I get back? They wouldn’t give a shit themselves, but they could lose their job if they don’t inform someone, right? Then again, I’ve heard about some of the shit that happens in foster care. It likely wouldn't be any better there. At least, with Patty, I’d know what to expect.
“Got a lot on your mind or something?” Micki asks when we reach a decrepit looking farmhouse with a back door that looks gray and brown from dirt and age. “You haven’t said anything in a while.”
“Thinking,” I mutter as she pushes the door open and leads me into an older kitchen with vinyl tiles and blue countertops.
“About what?” she asks absently as she settles me in a chair and hurries to the sink, grabbing a washcloth from a hook alongside the stove as she goes.
I debate telling her the truth. I don’t know this chick. What could she do? For shits and giggles, I do just that. I tell her exactly what I’m thinking.
I tell her about Patricia and why I was on the road. And as I do, Micki listens. Her eyes remain surprisingly calm as she soaks the washcloth in water and helps me clean my feet of the dirt and blood so she can take a look at my cuts more closely. The sun rises into the sky and the room heats up. Every once in a while, I’ll stop and take a breath, but she never rushes me. She doesn’t act concerned about someone coming down and wondering what the hell this girl with bloodied feet is doing in their kitchen. No one ever does either.
“So, what are you going to do then?” she asks after I’m done.
That’s just the thing. I don’t know. There’s a piece inside of me that's always been there. An impulsive creature that says I should go back and prove to Patricia and her fuck buddies that I’m not to be trifled with. That to fuck with me is to die. That little part of me is the reason I see flashes of Patricia's face in my mind and a knife in my hand. I want to kill her. I want to stab out her guts and watch as she bleeds. I want to see her insides on her outsides and I want her to know who's the one doing it. That's what she should get for trying to sell me to some stranger. I want her to feel the pain that I feel, the betrayal.
When I tell Micki this, too, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she takes a step back and reaches for a roll of paper towels on the counter. She rips one off and hands it to me. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” I demand, my voice croaking out.
She gives me a soft smile and rips a new one off. Then, without a word, she raises it to my cheek and begins wiping. Tears. She’s wiping my tears off … because I’m crying. No, not just crying. I’m sobbing. It’s that one act from her that sends me over the edge. My whole body begins to shake as my shoulders cave inward. Micki’s arms come around me and she pulls me against her.
I don’t know how long it takes for me to stop crying, but when I