Her hands were freezing and somehow, her small fist in mine reminded me of baby birds when they fall from the nest. Transparent, fragile, heart visible from the outside.
I probably looked scarier to her than the asshole on the ground had. Said asshole who was still bleeding on the ground beside us. I saw his chest heave, so I was pretty sure he wasn’t dead. Lucky day for scuzzbucket.
“Pizza? You like pizza?” I asked her.
A faint smile broke on her wide face, she looked even more like a kid.
“All teenagers like pizza,” I muttered. “Lucky for you, I’ll eat anything.”
She climbed on the back of my bike like the tiny bird she was. Awkward and lanky, limbs too long for her frame and still the persistent shakiness. How could I keep her from blowing away in the wind? Couldn’t be but ninety pounds.
I grabbed my helmet and pushed it down on her head. It was ten sizes too big and she looked like a bobble head. When I touched her shoulder, she jumped like a skittish cat. Reminder to self, don’t ever touch her, unless she specifically asks for it.
"Where's your helmet?" she asked.
Her concern was cute.
"Only got the one. I rather my head taste concrete than yours if it comes to it; I've spent years making sure mine's hard."
I felt my back vibrate almost imperceptibly with her laughter coming from her little frame. I started the engine and drove us the fuck away.
Chapter 2
Claire
"Fuck!" Isla said as she hung up the phone.
These days, news was never good. We sat in the eye of a never-ending shit storm.
"What's the matter this time?" I asked. “Less funding? No funding? Let me guess, more kids? A sibling set of seven needs placement before noon?”
Our office, if that was even the right word for the closet that housed our small desks, outdated computers, and the last fax machine in all of downtown, was sagging under the weight of unprocessed paperwork. We'd been trying to get private funding for the past six months since state and federal resources were running dry. Money being on short order didn't mean kids wouldn’t be needing the help anymore, in fact, it was just the opposite. More and more kids were pouring in off the streets, and it wasn’t that they couldn’t handle life outside, it was overcrowding—even in shanty towns, under bridges, flop houses and the like. It felt like everybody was in desperate need of help and we were just one youth shelter, two administrators and the rest was done by volunteers.
We had a policy we didn't turn anyone away. Everyone under eighteen was welcome here, until we hit maximum capacity and risked closure by the state. That was my stipulation when I was looking for a job in social work. Real change and action, I didn't want to work for some paper pushers who only cared about their bottom line and not the people they served.
"We can't accept any more grants until the next fiscal year anyway. That’s still three months away, so basically, we’re all going to have to survive on air.”
The economy was hurting everyone, but it was those who were already marginalized who felt it the most, and of course, out of those on the fringes, the kids were hit the hardest, especially those who had nowhere to go.
“I'm so sick of this bullshit," Isla said. Her head fell on the desk, and she let out a sigh.
"We'll find the money. We always do."
"God, I miss that optimism," she said, lifting her head. “I used to have it too when I started this job. You keep yours and maybe it will see us through.”
A faint smile formed on her lips. She looked so tired, her eyes red rimmed, her hair in a messy ponytail to hide the days of working, and her frame looked frailer than usual. Isla was one of the good ones. There was nothing she wouldn't do for these kids. It was work ethic and dedication like hers that inspired me to become a social worker. She wanted to help no matter what, at any cost to herself. Isla showed up and by doing so, she saved a lot of lives.
"There must be something we can do," I said. “Bake sale? Art fair fundraiser?”
"Well, I could always sell our organs on the black market," Isla said with a dry laugh.
We’d gotten creative in the past, we could get creative again.
“My kidneys are worthless after all the wine and coffee anyway.”
"Hey, can I get some help? Anybody work here anymore? The guy out front said it was okay to come back. Smells like a gym locker out there.”
Both Isla and I turned toward the voice at the door. Great, a fuckin' scumbag biker. Probably remembered he had a kid and thought they might have turned up here.