Street Girl

01 | lucy

01

WHEN THE DRIVER shoves me off the bus, I trip over my Timberlands and land ass-first in a snowbank. Cold wetness burns the backs of my thighs, and his caterpillar brows stitch as he points his fat finger at me.

"You pay for the bus like everyone else, kid. Next time I catch you sneaking on, I'm calling the cops."

I hock a snowball at the closing door. "Asshole!"

The bus drives off, and I catch my reflection in the windows: a permanent scowl on my face, bangs clumped to my forehead, skin ghoulish and pale. Passengers peer through the glass like I'm some sort of zoo animal, but to hell with what they think. They don't know me. Or what I've been through.

Regaining my dignity, I hide my face in my mittens to warm my cheeks with my breath. Damn, on the coldest night of the year, too. Stupid bus driver. All I wanted was a lift, a little bit of shelter from this arctic weather, but it was dumb of me to think he'd show me any kindness. It doesn't matter if red and green lights illuminate the block, or if Santa Claus flies with his reindeer on the billboard above. It's Christmastime in Godfrey and the only people who care are those rich enough to celebrate it.

Whatever. I'm closer to my destination than I was three blocks ago—silver linings, right? I have to keep moving.

Snow devours the city like volcanic ash, and the half-moon is obscured by layers of clouds. Right now, I'd rather be at Brett and Alecia's mindlessly watching Brett play Fallout from the safe warmth of his couch, but I need cash, and I need it quick. Alecia made it clear that she's sick of my freeloading. I hate feeling like a mooch, hate being a burden, so I'm stepping up. Maybe after tonight, I'll be able to pitch on groceries. I'll get a burger with extra bacon. Fries dipped in a Wendy's Frosty. I'll ride that bus over and over just to prove to that driver I'm more than some vagrant girl he can toss around.

Hauling myself over the brick wall of a residential neighbourhood, I land in what might as well be another planet. The east end of Godfrey City is all fancy-schmancy homes, Christmas decorations, Beemers and SUVs. This whole place is trapped in a safe snowglobe, guarded from all the bad in this city. All but me, I guess.

The air stings my face. At the top of a hill, my destination shines through the sleet like a beacon of light. Two stories of yellow brick ascend into the storm, while the lawn is alive with glowing reindeer. With bated breath, I creep along the hedges until I find a window, where inside, the family sits at a long table under the light of a crystal chandelier. Gold ornaments, white wreaths, silver tinsel—these are the people who love the holidays. Like the bus driver, they wouldn't give me the time of day. But that's why I'm here to take it myself.

I'm on my third week scavenging at this house, so I know their schedule like the back of my hand. Like clockwork, they leave every Friday at eight p.m. sharp, right after a cozy meal. I've named them the Johnsons, because they're stock-photo typical: a mom and a dad, plus two boys and a girl. With their matching fair skin and dark chocolate hair, they're like porcelain dolls, delicate and noble.

My frigid palms get clammy. Like every other time I've spied on them, my attention gravitates to the middle child. He's probably my age, and I guess he's cute in his own way. Dark hair swoops over his forehead, and he has these big blue eyes that look uncertain of the world around him.

I've named him John Jr.

Junior for short.

And despite the luxury he lives in, the kid looks like a sad sack as he slumps in his chair.

I see you, Junior. But does he see the disgruntled way his dad looks at him? He points his fork in Junior's direction, and Junior's eyes lower to the mound of poked-at spaghetti on his plate. Judging by the way the older brother still wears a letterman's jacket despite his evident "freshman fifteen," I'd guess he's some sort of ex-football star, the family's pride and joy.

In my head, I hear the dad say, "Damn it, Junior, why can't you be like your brother?"

And Junior would cry and say, "I just wanna be in the school musical, Dad!" before running up to his room.

I smirk. Rich people problems.

Junior obviously doesn't realize how good he has it, because he shoves his plate of food away from him. I would kill for something to eat like that right now. I haven't had an actual meal since my last visit to the shelter four days ago, but I can't go back there, not after what happened last time. Most girls I meet are friendly, or at least half-decent, but it only takes one bad chick to mess my whole life up. This Bev girl had seen the battered-up touch phone my friend Alecia gave me and tried to steal it, but I managed to kick her in the knee and scamper away.

I slept behind a dumpster that night. She'll wring my neck if she ever sees me again, and despite Godfrey's population of a hundred-and-eighty-thousand, this city only has one half-assed shelter. I'm on my own out here.

Taking out my phone, I squint through the falling snowflakes as they melt on the chipped screen. It's a pay-as-you-go, and there are only a few texts left until I'm cut off from the world again. I send another message to Brett and pray he'll get back to me this time.

Hey, is everything okay? I might have some cash soon so maybe I can come over.

I don't expect a reply. It isn't his job to take care of me, but I wish I could crash on his couch for just one night. But Alecia is Brett's sister, and even though they're both my best friends, she knows how risky it is to have me around. I'm a liability. And I do understand that.

Shivering away from my thoughts, I focus on the external chill through my bones. The clock reads 7:55 p.m. Once the Johnsons are gone, their stuff is fair game. A smile curls at my lips.

Finders, keepers.