Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless Read online

  "Wow, you must've been really hungry." Jayden looks at my empty burger basket. I ordered a deluxe double cheeseburger, curly fries, and a chocolate shake (the old-fashioned kind where they bring it in the big metal cup), and I ate every bite.

  I smile sheepishly. "I know it's not cool for girls to eat like that-"

  "No, I think it's very cool, Adele. I hate it when girls try to eat like an anorexic hummingbird just to impress a guy. Honestly, why is that supposed to be impressive anyway?"

  I just shrug, then wipe my mouth with a napkin.

  "Seriously, I like a girl who's not afraid to eat."

  Now I'm feeling self-conscious. I glance around, then look back at Jayden's basket. He's still got food left. "So, did I really make a pig of myself?"

  He chuckles. "No. You have a healthy appetite, that's all. And I like that you're comfortable enough with me to show it."

  "Okay . . ." But as we leave I'm wondering if my "healthy appetite" is more off-putting than he's showing. Soon we're in the library, and while he's searching for his book, I settle down to do homework. And I'm surprised that the library is actually quite nice and comfortable, with oversized leather club chairs. The atmosphere in this old building is rather friendly ... and inviting.

  After a while, I need to use the ladies' room, but I'm barely through the restroom door when I'm shocked to find a girl half dressed in there. I try not to stare as I hurry into a stall, then take my time. I'll give her a chance to get her shirt back on. But when I emerge, she's still topless and appears to be using the sink as her makeshift bathtub. I avert my eyes and quickly wash my hands, but when I'm finished, the half-naked girl is blocking the towel dispenser.

  "Don't look at me like that," she snaps at me.

  "I-I'm not," I stammer as I stand there with my hands dripping. "I just wanted a towel."

  "Oh." She glances over her shoulder to see the paper towels, then moves.

  I snatch a towel and hurry to dry my hands.

  "But I know what you're thinking." She pulls a T-shirt over her head.

  I stare at her now. "How can you possibly know what I'm thinking?"

  "I know you're judging me, thinking I'm a pathetic loser."

  I frown. "Why would I think that?"

  She rolls her eyes, then reaches for a backpack that's stuffed to the max. "No reason," she mumbles.

  But now I'm curious. "Seriously, why did you think I was like that?"

  "Oh, I've seen you and your other rich friends at school, and I know-"

  "We go to the same school?"

  She frowns. "Not that someone like you would notice. You're too into your own little world to care about anyone else."

  I'm about to argue this, but she's actually right. I am too into my own little world to notice. Still, I'm not sure what her point is.

  "Anyway, who cares what you think?" She pulls on her jacket, scowling at me like I'm personally responsible for whatever her misfortune is. Or maybe she's just mad at me for finding her half naked in the bathroom.

  "I'm sorry you feel that way." I make my way to the door ahead of her.

  "Yeah, I'll bet you are."

  Then not knowing what more I can say, I just leave and hurry back over to where Jayden is still sitting surrounded by our books and stuff and quickly sit down.

  "Something wrong?" He looks curiously at me.

  I shrug, then glance over to where the strange girl has emerged from the restroom. "Just a weird encounter in the ladies' room."

  "Huh?" His eyes follow mine, then he nods in a knowing way. "Oh, that's Cybil Henderson. She goes to our school. And she's a little odd."

  "Oh ... well, she was half naked in the restroom."

  His brows lift. "Seriously?"

  I nod. "Pretty weird."

  "What was she doing in there?"

  "It looked like she was trying to take a bath in the sink."

  He frowns now. "I'll bet she's homeless."

  "But she goes to our school."

  He looks over to where the girl is now standing by the magazines, then shakes his head. "Yeah, well, you know how it is. They'll let anyone in that place." Then he kind of laughs.

  I study the girl now. Cybil Henderson . . . she goes to our school ... she bathes in public restrooms ... maybe she's homeless? And I'm sure I'm just being melodramatic, but what if that were me?

  is a little before nine when Jayden drops me off at home. And once again, he walks me to my door and kisses me. And once again, I feel slightly dizzy and warmth rushes through me. Before he can kiss me again, our front door light goes on-making us both jump.

  "Looks like your mom's expecting you." Jayden steps back.

  "Uh, yeah, I guess I better get inside." I glance behind me to be sure the door's still shut.

  "In case she needs something."

  "Right." I nod and reach for the doorknob.

  "Thanks for going to the library with me," he says as he moves away.

  "Thank you."

  "I'll call you." And just like that, he's heading down the stairs.

  As I go inside, I smell smoke. Not cigarette smoke or cooking smoke, but something different. Kind of like leaves burning. "Hello?" I call out, but no one answers. Is something wrong? Our place is on fire or someone's broken in, so I grab for my cell phone and get ready to dial 911. "Mom?" I call out loudly. "If that's you, you'd better answer-I'm calling the cops!"

  My mom's bedroom door opens, and she bursts out with a trail of blue smoke following her. "What are you doing?"

  I hold up my cell phone. "I was going to call 911. I thought something was wrong."

  She leans her head back and laughs.

  "I didn't know I was being funny." I peer behind her. "What's on fire in your room?"

  She laughs even harder now. And then a guy appears from behind her. "Whass so funny?" he asks in a slurred voice.

  "My daughter. She was going to call the cops on us."

  The guy gets a worried look. "Why're you calling the cops on us? We didn't hurt nobody."

  "I thought we had burglars." I study him more closely. Although I haven't met Mark, I'm pretty sure this is not him. This guy looks like he needs a haircut and a shave and probably a shower too. "What are you doing anyway?" I look over his shoulder. "And what's burning in there?"

  Now he starts laughing. And then they're both laughing like I'm the funniest thing ever. My mom waves her hand at me in a dismissive way. "My daughter"-she lets out a loud chortle-"she thinks she's my mother!"

  This makes him laugh even harder. "That's a good one." He pulls my mom back into the bedroom, shutting the door in my face. Then they both laugh some more, and I seriously consider calling the cops. Okay, that would enrage my mom. But who is this guy? And why are they smoking dope in there? Because I know that's what they're doing. And it totally infuriates me.

  I go to my room and lock the door behind me. Then I flop down on my bed and try not to remember the last time something like this happened. It's one of those memories you try to suppress, telling yourself it was a one-time-only thing. But history, I've heard, repeats itself. Especially when the person doesn't learn from her mistakes the first time. And my guess is my mom's history is repeating itself now.

  I was around twelve the last time something like this happened, about a year after my parents' split. My mom's mood swings had been playing havoc with our lives for months. And then she met Perry, and she started acting almost normal again. At first Perry seemed nice-even to me. He fixed a leaky toilet and promised to take us to Disneyland when he got his tax return. But it wasn't long before I figured out that the connection my mom and Perry shared was illegal drugs. Naturally, my mom claimed she was simply "self-medicating" since her prescription pills never really worked. And naturally, I wanted to believe her. Especially since, as strange as it seemed, our lives had calmed down a bit with Perry around. And then one day I came home from school and my mom and Perry were gone. I mean really gone. A lot of her clothes and things and her leopard-print su
itcases were gone.

  I freaked. The only other family I knew of was my mom's mom, Grandma Vincent, and she was a person I barely knew and had never wanted to know any better. It's putting it mildly to say that my mom and grandma never got along. Anyway, after my mom didn't come home for three days, I got scared and, out of pure desperation, called my grandma. She was living in Florida at the time and having some health issues related to decades of chain-smoking Camels.

  I suppose I actually thought she might come and stay with me so I could finish the school year. Or perhaps she'd invite me to come out to Florida to live with her. I even entertained thoughts about her taking me to DisneyWorld. But my dear sweet grandmother called our state's Department of Children's Services, and the next thing I knew, I was slammed into a foster home with a bunch of other losers like me.

  And if I thought my mom was bad, the foster home was way, way worse. I don't even want to think about it all these years later. But by the time my mom returned and got the authorities to release me back to her care, I'd nearly been raped twice, had a nasty case of head lice, and had developed the beginning of what I'm sure was an honest-to-goodness stomach ulcer.

  Now I pace back and forth in my room. I am so angry that I'd like to hit something ... or throw something ... or just scream so loudly that all the neighbors come to see what's wrong. I even consider running down to the pay phone and making an anonymous call to the police. But that might land me in the foster-care system again. I am so not going there. To say I'm trapped is an understatement. But what options do I have?

  I consider calling Isabella since she's my closest friend. And it's possible I could ask her for help, but she had to go to some out-of-town family thing today. And even if she was home by now, what would I say? Do I invite myself over to spend the night? And if I did spend the night, what if I lost it and just spilled the beans? What would happen if I told her the whole ugly story? I know she wouldn't understand. How could she? Her worst problem in life is a bad-hair day or getting a B on a test. Or the fact that her parents overprotect her. She's always complaining about how they keep such close tabs on her. And she can't do anything without checking in every step of the way.

  I remember how her mom grilled me when I first met her, like she was worried I might be a bad influence on Isabella. What would her parents think if they knew my mom and some strange man were smoking drugs in our condo right now? For sure, they'd never let me see their precious daughter again.

  What would Jayden think if he knew about this? Even as I consider his reaction, I know I will do everything possible to keep him from ever knowing. It would ruin everything between us. I know it. The shame I feel myself... just to think about my mom and that creep ... right here in our condo. It's disgusting. And humiliating. And I hate it. I hate him. I hate my mom. I hate my life.

  The next morning, I wake up just as angry as I was when I went to bed last night. I go into the kitchen and start opening and closing cabinets, slamming them so loudly I'm sure our neighbors are ready to complain. Well, let them. And let my mom deal with it!

  "What are you doing?" my mom demands when she comes into the kitchen, blinking at me with blurry red eyes. "Are you crazy?"

  "Am Icrazy?" I shoot back at her. "That's novel coming from you.

  "What?"

  I point my finger at her. "Look at you! You're a big fat mess. I know that you've lost your job. And now you're shacking up with some drug freak and-"

  "Watch out what you call my friend."

  "Your friend?" I let out a big sarcastic laugh. "With friends like that, you don't need any enemies, Mom."

  "I'm warning you, Adele; don't you talk to me like that."

  "Warning me?" My voice is so loud I'm sure everyone in the complex can hear me. "What are you warning me about, Mom? That you've destroyed our lives again? That you blew your last chance to make it? That you're going to start hiding from your problems by using drugs again? Just what are you warning me about? I'd like to know!"

  "I'm sick of you and your attitude, Miss Goody Two-shoes! You always talk down to me, like you're so much better. Well, you're not any better, Adele. You've just had more opportunities."

  "I've had opportunities?" I shriek at her. "Like working and going to school while you lie around feeling sorry for yourself all the time? Like putting up with a lazy mom who has no idea how to be a mom and is so selfish that it usually feels like she's the child? Like I'm the one who has to be responsible and act like the adult? Opportunities like that?"

  My mom is speechless and looks slightly hurt. And I know I should back down. I should apologize and do something to make everything better. the problem is that I'm just fresh out of solutions. And my patience is worn so thin that it's like I'm standing on a paper-thin layer of ice and I don't even care if it breaks and I go down into the freezing waters and drown. I'm so over this.

  "That's the thanks I get . . ." She lets out a sob and waves her hand. "For getting us into this place ... your school ... your fancy new clothes. That's the thanks I get?"

  I place my hands on the granite countertop, bracing myself and keeping myself from picking up something and throwing it. "You might've gotten us here, Mom, but then you blew it up. Just like you always do. You ruin everything."

  "You sound like you wish I were dead." She looks at me with steely blue eyes. "Is that what you're saying, Adele?"

  Okay, this is the last straw and I know it. I take in a long, deep breath. Be calm. Do not react. Then I look evenly at her. "No, Mom, I don't wish you were dead. I just wish you'd grow up. And if you can't grow up, I just wish you'd go away and leave me alone. Because, seriously, you wear me out. I can't take the drama."

  I look down at my hands, and tears slide down my hot cheeks. And I really hate to cry. It feels so weak. I know it was wrong to say all that to my mom, but for the most part, it was the truth. I do feel worn out. I want the drama to end.

  So I look up and am about to tell her I'm sorry but that something has to change, and she's not even in the room. I can hear their voices in my mom's room, and I suspect she's telling him about what an ungrateful child I am and how I don't respect her. I don't even care anymore. It's like I'm emotionally drained. The only feeling I'm really cognizant of is that I'm hungry.

  I go into my room, get dressed, and put my hair into a tidy ponytail. I put on my coat and get my bag, making sure my old address book is in there because I still have all the phone numbers of the places I worked, and then I head out. I am going to get a job today. My sights are set on the twenty-four-hour restaurant, but since I have to pass by the nursing home, I decide to stop in there as well. River Woods Care Center looks nice enough from the outside. A long, low brick building, neatly kept grounds, lots of windows. It might not be such a bad place to work. Plus it's only a few blocks from Westwood Heights.

  "Do you have a resume?" the middle-aged woman at the reception desk asks me after I explain why I'm here.

  "I don't have one, but I can make one if you-"

  "No, that's okay." She smiles and bends over to look in a drawer. "Let's see, I know the applications are here somewhere. I don't usually work at this desk, but our regular gal is sick today."

  I wait as she pokes around below the desk, then finally pops her head up with an application in hand. "You can fill it out here if you like. There's a dayroom around the corner with tables and chairs."

  I thank her and take the application over to what looks like an oversized living room. About half a dozen elderly people are sitting there. Some in wheelchairs, some on the other furnishings, but all sitting separately. As if they don't really know each other. Or maybe they don't want to. There's a big TV going with some kind of sports show on, but no one seems interested. I sit on a molded plastic chair, fish a pen from my bag, and, using my best penmanship, carefully fill out the application.

  "What are you doing?" A frail-looking white-haired woman pushes her walker over to the table where I'm writing.

  I smile at her. "Filling out a
job application."

  Her pale blue eyes widen. "To work here?"

  I nod. "Do you think I'd like to work here?"

  She looks over her shoulder, then back at me with a thoughtful expression. "You seem like a nice girl."

  Now I'm not sure what she means by this observation, but I thank her. "Do you think a nice girl would want to work here?"

  She lifts a shaky hand to rub her chin. "Well, I suppose a nice girl might want to work here for a while. But not for too long."

  "Yes ... well, it would only be part time."

  "How old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  She looks shocked. "Oh my. You're only a girl."

  "How old are you?"

  She gets a sly look. "Twenty-nine."

  I try not to laugh.

  She lowers her head in a confidential way. "If you reverse the numerals, you can guess my age. I like number games. I used to be a teacher."

  I figure she must be ninety-two. And she seems to be mentally sharp, which makes me wonder why she's in here. But I don't think it's polite to ask. I'm sure there are all kinds of reasons elderly people are in here.

  "Now I must get my exercise," she tells me as she pushes her walker away. "I fell and broke my hip, and the doctor says the only way I can get better is to walk and walk and walk. And if I get well enough, I can go back to my house."

  "Oh, that's good. Yes, be sure you get your exercise."

  She pauses. "What's your name?"

  "Adele."

  "Oh, such a pretty name."

  "Thank you. What's your name?"

  "I'm Mrs. Ashburn."

  "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashburn."

  Then she smiles and shuffles away. And I turn my attention back to the application. By the time I'm done, I feel rather pleased with myself. For my age, I think my work references are fairly impressive. Hopefully whoever reads this will agree.