Finding Sam (Featured)

Chapter 11 - Confessions

The drive home took less than ten minutes. It took longer to find parking as a party was going on in my street and someone had blocked my driveway. Though I insisted that Erik just let me out, he refused and spent the next five minutes looking for parking.

"Not cool, Sam," he said. "I'm walking you to your door, whether you like it or not."

"You do know that I live right across the corner from the police station," I teased. "I doubt anyone would want to mug me."

"I don't care," he said. "I'm still walking you to your door."

He found a place to park three blocks away and we took our time walking. It was nice to smell the jasmine in bloom along one neighbor's fence and roses at another neighbor's yard.

Two units in the building next door were having loud parties. And by 1 am, I knew they'd quiet down a bit unless they wanted the neighbors to call the police.

My house was much smaller than Erik's beachfront home - and much older. I was almost embarrassed to invite him in because of that comparison, but I was still proud of my little house. It belonged to the first generation of beach homes during the 50's, when Hermosa Beach was a sleepy little surfing town south of the airport. Back then, quirky shops lined Pier Avenue and there was even a vintage theater by the beach. These days, while Hermosa Beach was still a small town, it was far from sleepy.

Through the years, as Hermosa Beach grew, my neighbors packed up and left. They sold their properties to developers who converted the sleepy cottages into condominiums and town-homes, like the ones on either side of my house. One day, I probably would move out of Hermosa Beach, too. Maybe I'd go somewhere that was quieter during the weekends, with no one throwing up in the alley behind the house because they'd had too much to drink.

But I wasn't ready to uproot myself just yet. Hermosa Beach was still a wonderful city to raise a child. And with Manhattan Beach the next city over, the school system was far from mediocre. It was also my home, where I reinvented myself from the loser who tagged walls and keyed cars to a single mother trying to do everything right. And no matter how old my little house was, I loved it, with its fallen shingles and faded boards, and pipes that needed replacing soon.

While Erik browsed through my bookshelves and DVD collection which consisted mostly of children's shows, I went into the kitchen to pour him a glass of water.

"Rosie told me that you both met in high school," He said, thanking me for the water. "She said that you were not even a sophomore when she first met you."

"I wasn't even a student," I laughed as I sat down on the couch. "Rosie was eighteen and about to graduate, I think. I was fourteen and I was looking for a girls' room to tag."

He frowned, sitting down next to me. "What's that?"

I gave him an incredulous look. How could he not know what tagging meant? "Tag. You know, vandalism. Graf-fi-ti."

Erik peered at me. "You? A truant?"

"I wasn't just a truant. I was a juvenile delinquent with a record, though looking at me now, you'd never know it," I said, wondering why I was telling Erik this of all things. "By the time I met Rosie, I already had an impressive record, all misdemeanors, by the way - nothing serious. Skipping school, vandalism, petty theft - like shoplifting a six-pack of beer or a bag of Cheetos. Not that I'm proud of it or anything. Just letting you know."

"Are you serious?" Erik was staring at me with an incredulous look on his face.

"Yup," I said, trying my best to be nonchalant about it. After all, it was a long time ago, though a part of me was begging for me to stop. There were just certain things best kept secret. Still, my mouth was going faster than my rational mind was able to silence. "I was running with a bad crowd then, kids from other foster homes, just like me. My grandmother was in some nursing home then, and no one could locate my mother, so I went to into the foster system - which sucked, by the way."