Where it got me? Well, screw you, Blake. I finished school, and I’m still recovering from the accident where I was run over by a motorcycle, breaking my leg and busting up my knee. I got a part-time job, and I’m going to figure out what I want to do with my life. What’s wrong with that?
Besides, I honestly fail to see the connection between helping someone survive the night and getting run over by someone who shouldn’t even be allowed to drive. But Blake has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to homeless people. He believes it’s their fault and their choice. He insists they have no roof over their heads because they’re lazy, stupid and careless.
Yeah, right. People are forced onto the street. They don’t fall out of the sky. It’s statistics. It’s life.
‘Who will save you next time, Evie? Who will bring you home if something else happens to you?’
Because, of course, he had to be the one to find me after the accident and call 9-1-1, turning into a hero in my family’s eyes.
And finally, when he saw I wasn’t moved, he said the scariest thing ever:
‘Christ, Evie. Who else do you think will want a cripple like you?’
Stabbing into the sorest part, the most insecure part of me.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and root in my bag for money as I approach the counter. Maybe nobody will ever want me. It’s not like boys are lining up to ask me out. I don’t have my brother Joel’s rock-star looks. I’m just the mousey little sister with the wide eyes and non-descript hair. Nor do I have his abilities. Hell, he’s got a sports scholarship running track and is doing great at college. I can’t even jog without someone running me over with a bike and spending months trying to walk straight again.
I take my donut and walk out into the cold, along the tables and benches they have for customers.
I need to get my life back. I need I find myself again. Blake is an ass, and I need him to leave me alone. So I’m ignoring his texts and calls, his taunts, and moving on.
Really moving on.
Across the street is a tattoo shop. Sometimes a tall, blond guy stands there, staring right at me. At least, in my direction. Sometimes I fantasize that it’s me he’s looking at, that he’s attracted to me. Even from across the street he looks handsome with his square jaw, the clean planes of his face and the wide set of his shoulders.
Yeah, Ev. Dream on. Why should he be looking at me of all women?
I glance up and freeze. He’s there, at his usual spot outside the tattoo shop, his back propped against the building, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s dressed in faded jeans, black boots and a black jacket. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed, his short blond hair catching the faint sunlight.
With one last look at his long legs and broad chest, that bright halo of hair, I hurry away. God, what if he caught me looking?
Mortifying.
My leg twinges and I slow down. There’s a heaviness on the air. The fracture in my leg hurts, my knee above all. Although it’s almost healed, I’m a barometer, able to tell you when rain is coming. Who needs the weather forecast when I’m around?
I cross the avenue carefully. Not that I have a phobia of bikes now, but I sure as hell don’t want to get run over again. So okay, I may be a bit scared of them... with good reason.
As I reach the bus stop, I hear a distant shout behind me, but when I turn I don’t see anyone. Cars race by. Drivers honk and rev their engines. I must have imagined it.
Shrugging to myself, I board the bus and take a seat by the window. What do I want to do with my life? There's one thing I love doing: helping people. But I’m not supposed to care if the homeless people I see around me live or die. If they’re sick or hungry. That’s none of my business.
‘They don’t deserve your time or our parent’s hard-earned money,’ Joel tells me day in and day out. ‘They live in their own world. Lazy bums. Low-lives.’
He sounds so much like Blake it’s unbearable.
If I don’t go to college, if I keep my job at the sports store instead and rent a cheap apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, will I be a low-life in his eyes, too?
And hell, how can I jog—well, at this point, limp—through my neighborhood, in my shiny new jogging shoes and pants, wearing my new watch that does everything apart from making coffee, with my cell phone that can read my emails out loud in case I’m too bored to use my hands, in front of people who don’t have to eat?
So, yeah, I know we’re not millionaires, and I know I shouldn’t waste money on stupid stuff, and I’m aware that my parents worked hard to get where they are now and be able to afford two cars and all the nice things in life, but hey... Using my pocket money to buy food and sometimes medicine for people who need it isn’t big spending. Pocket money indeed... It’s not like I’m taking anything away from anyone.
Thing is, I used to have a purpose in my life before the accident. The hurt wasn’t just physical. I lost people. And it cost me. Joel rolls his eyes when I mention it, and Mom and Dad don’t get it.
I knew my people. Before the bike hit me and broke my leg, I did my rounds at least three times a week. Jogging was my excuse to check on everyone I knew was out there, taking shelter in store entrances and bus stops. I lost two older guys before the accident—Brent who was found dead one cool summer morning, and Jimmy, who was hooked on drugs and choked on his own vomit one night.
Then there was this young guy I ran across a few times. First, he’d been sitting with a few of my regulars outside Kohl’s department store in late summer. Then in the fall I found him curled up in a sleeping bag in a small alley off State Street. I recognized his torn blue jacket and his long ratty hair.
A few days later he was burning up with fever and coughing his lungs out. He could barely breathe. It looked like pneumonia. I called 9-1-1 and stayed to see that the ambulance arrived. His lips were blue, barely visible under his scraggly blond beard. As I held his too-thin hand and brushed stringy hair off his sunken face, I was scared they’d be too late.