Page 3 of Burning Ember
“I get it.” And I do. If you want something from somebody then you need to give them something in return. It’s the reality I learned at a young age.
Also staying off the grid, moving from place to place, it’s a lonely and isolated existence. Having a friend, or even someone to give me advice, would be nice.
A heavy thud sounds to my right. Spinning around, my gaze lands on a pair of leaf-green eyes. They belong to a girl. The girl from last night. She stands about five-three, five-four. Her body’s almost childlike. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s no older than sixteen. But that can’t be right since she’d have to be eighteen to be admitted into the shelter. Although, I’m starting to think whoever is running this place isn’t a stickler for the rules. Considering men and women are supposed to be segregated and that wasn’t the case last night.
The girl has an oval face, high cheekbones, and big eyes lined with kohl under dark eyebrows. Her raven hair is short, shaggy, and sets off her ivory skin. She’s dressed a little gothic for my taste, in a black tank, shorts, high leather boots, and rubber bracelets cover half of her forearms.
Not so much Tinker Bell after all, more like a young Joan Jett.
Her rough exterior looks like an attempt to push away the world. But then why, out of the two hundred or so occupants of the shelter, was she the only one to come to my rescue?
“Whoa, settle it down, Red. It’s not like I’m gonna slit your throat or anything.”
Red.I’d been called worse. Ginger, Carrot Top, and my ‘oh so’ not favorites, Fire Crotch and Freckle Monster. Though, I haven’t been called either of those in years.
Mini Joan Jett turns to the old woman and her features contort, her nose wrinkles. She makes a hissing sound while curling her fingers, further proving my theory she’s a young teen.
“Brat,” the old woman sneers at her and I’m taken aback by her sudden vehemence.
“Helga.”
“Slut.”
“Wicked Witch of the West.” Joan looks at the ceiling and circles around. “Now if only we could find a house to fall on you.”
The old woman rolls her eyes.
Joan crosses her arms over her chest and faces me. Curtly, she asks, “Who are you? What’s your story?”
“Uh . . .” I don’t give out my real name. Ever. “Red, works. Um . . . it’s my first night.” I stuff my hands in my back pockets. “Thank you for—”
She shakes her head. “Just watch your back next time, so I won’t have to. There’s more than one wolf in this forest. If you know what I mean.” Then, I’m yet again caught off guard as she fake lunges at the old woman who flinches. Joan gives an amused huff, turns and saunters off, kicking items on the floor that have the misfortune of being in her path, leaving me with the impression that she’s a little bit of a mini tornado.
The thought brings a small smile to my face. She’s got spunk, like someone else I know and miss.
Helga, as Mini Joan referred to her, is not impressed. In fact, she seems rattled as she grumbles something under her breath.
An awkward silence descends between us. Then she mutters, “Don’t pay attention to Ivy. That girl’s an ungrateful shit.”
Ivy.Is that the girl’s name?
Not facing me, she says, “You know, you have the look of the Irish about ya. The red hair, freckles. But blue eyes instead of green.”
They’re actually blue-green, but I don’t correct her.
“I may have the look, but none of the luck.”
“Mhmmm.” She drops her bag by my foot. “Maybe you need to learn how to make your own luck. I’ll be right back. Don’t let this out of your sight.”
“Sure.” I nod and sit back down onto my cot as she walks away.
A few moments later, as I comb the rats out of my hair, a melancholy feeling hits me. It hits me about the same time every day. I pull my notebook slash scrapbook out and flip through the pages, running my eyes over a photo, then the drawings done by a five-year-old. They are the only things that cure the homesick feeling I get in the pit of my stomach.
Soon enough Helga returns with her hair wet and her skin clean, although, she’s put on the same tattered clothing.
“Your turn.”
I pull out my shampoo and conditioner from my bag. But she stops me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t go wasting your own. They have that stuff in the shower room, and Uncle Sam can afford to help you out.”
