Mom takes a deep breath and calls the first number. “Hello, is this Mrs. Prichard? This is Lizzy Stevens, Dashiell’s mom from Haverton. We’re calling about the gala tickets. Have you purchased yours yet? Oh, well, I can take your information over the phone.”
Mom is a natural, and I breathe a sigh of relief. We might not fit in if they knew our story, but they don’t, and we can pretend. She fills in the space for the credit card numbers, and I worry about keeping them safe until we can return the papers to Natayla and her mother.
“I don’t care! Take your crack outside. There’s no using in here!” a counselor bellows from the men’s bathroom.
My mom raises her voice to try to drown out the background noise. What would these people think if they knew we were calling from the Bradbury Street Mission?
“There’s no cap on donation. If you want to, I can lock you in as a benefactor right now,” Mom explains.
“Call maintenance, two of these shitters are clogged beyond what a plunger can do.”
I recognize Craig’s voice, a volunteer, rising from the bathroom. I put my face in my hands and then scrub them through my hair. My stomach is growling again, and I remind myself that if we can get through these calls, we’ll be able to buy some groceries.
“She hung up,” Mom says, defeated.
“Shut the hell up in there,” I say as I pound on the bathroom wall.
Craig sticks his head out and peers around the corner.
“We’re working. Trying to improve our circumstances,” I tell him.
Craig doesn’t reply, just throws his hands in the air.
Mom stands and looks apologetic. “Dashiell, maybe this isn’t the best place.”
“We don’t have any other options.” I can hear the desperation in my voice. As if these few phone calls will save us. As if this isn’t as much about my connection to Sam as it is to making a few bucks.
“Is it the girl?” she asks.
I’ve always been able to talk to my mom. We’re as close as can be, and that’s why I feel so fucked up about us being homeless and on the run. I look at the dark circles under her eyes, accentuated by the fading bruises, and the halogen lights in here don’t do anyone any favors. We’re homeless, sure, but now we look like zombies.
“Her parents. Her mother starves her. Like, really starves her. They’re as loaded as you can imagine and they don’t feed her. So, I’ve been sharing, and it makes me feel like I can do something for someone.”
“Come here,” my mom says. She gives me a hug and my shoulders relax into her as I realize how much I need it. “One day, we’ll be out of here and back on our feet. You’ll help plenty of people in your lifetime, Dash. I know it. This is temporary. Let’s make some calls and show that woman what we’re made of.”
It takes us three days of hogging the phones, but we raise three thousand dollars for The Haverton Gala and feel pretty damn accomplished.
We take the city bus over to Natayla’s neighborhood, which also happens to be the financial district, and I didn’t know people actually lived here.
“Are you sure this is right, Dash? This seems to be nothing but offices and banks,” Mom says as we stand to file off the bus.
Dusk is falling, and the normally busy sidewalks are empty. Even the street vendors are packing up as we head up the intimidating steel-gray steps onto the terrace of a skyscraper that seems to take up the whole block. The numbers on the façade match the number on our paper, and we both stare up at the top like two tourists on their first day out in the city.
“This is their office, or does your friend live in this building?” Mom asks.
“She lives at the top.” Like a princess trapped in a castle.
In the glass elevator that seems to shoot to the stratosphere, I stare at Mom’s coat and shoes and realize we look like where we came from. I force back the shame, reminding myself it doesn’t define us, but set against this backdrop, it’s hard not to feel worthless.
“They wouldn’t have let you into Haverton, wouldn’t have given you a full scholarship if they didn’t see something in you, Dash. I see it, too. You’re gonna do great things,” Mom says.
She squeezes my hand reassuringly as the doors ding open into a massive foyer. A palace of glass. Windows that stretch to the ceiling and tower over the city skyline. It’s an apartment, but it looks like a museum.
“Hello. You must be Dashiell!” A woman with a warm smile rushes over and reaches out to take my coat.
“Mrs. Koslova,” my mom says in greeting. The woman’s face falls.