Patron Saint

She'll break her own heart

Last Tuesday I heard her crying again. I decided to go over to her house and see what was so wrong that she could be crying for an hour. I wasn't expecting her to let me in because whenever I attempted this she would go completely silent until I left or answer the door and tell me to...well, she said some not-so-nice words for a lady. This time, however, was different. My young neighbor with the parents who were never home approached the door with slow, thought out steps that triggered the loud CREAK of the old floorboards that even I could hear from the other side of the thick, carved wood. She opened the door as slowly as she made her way there. I began to wonder if she just liked hearing the noises the house would make. "Hello?" I tilted my head.
"What?" She snapped, though not as fierce as I was used to.
"Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?"
Her mouth opened, ready to give a quick denial and a possible insult, but shut it as she looked down at her feet. She then mumbled, "I-I'd like some help."
I took in a deep breath and then let it out with a chuckle. "Yes, anything."
I nodded my head towards her living room, "may I?"
The girl nodded and moved out of the way, keeping her arms close to her sides. I noted her stiff pose with a questioning glance, but she either didn't see it or ignored it. I wondered what could have happened where she would actually ask for my help. I didn't know her very well, but I could see she was a very independent girl. I sat on the burgundy couch that was situated rather awkwardly in the center of the room. She continued to look down at her feet and said she'd "be right back" with a soft voice and she shuffled away, a sort of waddle, stiff and slow. I placed my feet on the top of her powder blue coffee table. Seconds after I heard the girl clearing her throat and felt her flashing me a glare similar to the ones she gave on the way to her bus stop. I turned in her direction and set my feet back on the floor. "Heh. Sorry about that."
She had apparently gone to change. I realized this when I saw her clad in a pair of black pajama pants and a purple and white striped shirt. Much more appropriate than her earlier white shorts and red tank top I suppose. "You're lucky I even let you in. Don't ruin our furniture."
"Well, miss," I started to survey the state the house was in with all its clutter and grimy glory, "it doesn't seem like that would make much of a difference."
To add to the list of recent surprises, she laughed. So my neighbor wasn't uptight and rude all the time. She's pretty when she smiles. Just then, my eyes zeroed in on some dots of red on the sleeves of her striped shirt. "What are those spots from?"
As I pointed her face fell. She looked like she was deciding whether to yell at me or to cry. I gulped and said, "Must be dirty from when you had spaghetti or something. It doesn't look like you get a lot of laundry done." I chuckle and she laughed as well, wringing her hands.
"Yeah, that's it..."