Page 20 of Liar Byrd
I nod, flushing with shame.
She makes a sound. Her expression is nothing less than judgmental. I’m an empty-headed, brain bird of a girl who will get herself killed.
Something about her quiet condemnation makes me angry.
“A man was there,” I say tightly, lifting my chin. “I wasn’t sure if he wanted me or the food. Better he take the food than me.”
Something that might be respect flickers across her brown gaze.
She cocks her head at me. “Not stupid after all.”
My back stiffens. “Hey!”
She gets to her feet, and it’s a long, loud affair. Something else cracks loudly, and I wince in sympathy. “How old are you?”
I hesitate to tell her.
She glares at me.
“Eighteen.” My gaze darts to her nearly overflowing shopping cart a few feet away, and I remember the homeless man who threw a can at my head when I hid from the rain in his cardboard house.
She’s been relatively nice to me so far, but I’m not looking for another attack by a homeless person. I’m tired, I’m weak, and I’m not sure I could duck fast enough. And even an empty can lobbed at my head would hurt.
She nods, and then she walks away.
I watch her, not sure if she’s remembered there’s somewhere else she needs to be.
She stops and turns to me, glaring. “Well, are you coming?”
I don’t move. “Where?”
“Shelter. You’re fresh on the streets. They’ll take you for a night or two.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why are you helping me?”
She chuckles, the sound hard. “You’re in my place. Mysafeplace. I ain’t sharing my sleeping place under the bridge with anyone. Even you.”
But she let me sleep. She didn’t chase me away or throw a can at my head like she could have. Even though she probably had nowhere else to stay, she let me have her safe place for a night.
“Where did you sleep?” I ask.
She continues walking away and doesn’t answer.
I get to my feet and follow her, still wobbly and sick. Nothing cracks loudly; all my hurts are on the inside.
She walks past the shopping cart, and I open my mouth to ask her why she’s leaving it. Then I close my mouth, saying nothing.
She’s helping, and I don’t want to pry into her life or ask her too many questions that she decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
So I quietly follow her instead, keeping my eyes open for women in smart business suits and men who look like pimps.
This must truly be her safe place if she feels she can leave the cart here. If you have no home, you make whatever place you can into your home, and she has the entire city to choose from.
She doesn’t speak to me as she leads the way out from the bridge, cutting through an empty parking lot and onto the busy city streets. I study her out of the corner of my eye, curious about why she’s helping me.
Does she have a daughter somewhere in the world that I remind her of?
Is she just that desperate to have her safe sleeping place under the bridge back that she’d reluctantly help the stranger who stole her place from her?
