A place to lay her head

The others all leave the place of pages, every day when the clock says seven.

They can go home you see.

Back to parents and a mum and a dad and hot food and enough sleep and no sounds and a real bed. That's what they have, and what she wants.

What does she have?

Let's see: an overly-large brown jacket left by a careless teen, a half- packet of Cheetos she took from someone's desk, a scruffy blanket that even the moths won't go near, unwashed, used to be blonde curls, a worn-out Dora the Explorer on her back, faded salmon sneakers that barely hold her feet and laces that flop sadly onto the floor, and four-thousand-three-hundred-and-twenty-two books.

There are more than four-thousand-three-hundred-and-twenty-two books around her. Lots of stuff she doesn't know, but she knows there are more.

No-one knows that she stays at the end of each day, when the sun goes to sleep. How could they? The guard wants to get home, so he doesn't look too hard. She stays near the corners, and doesn't make a peep.

The people at the desk all know her, and she waves when she walks by. Not too much- just enough to be cute and calm.

How long has she been here, between words and letters and symbols and tassels? Tucked away between shelves, a ghost that moves between Romance and Horror and Travel, more real than any tale they tell.

Yet lost, a sad story that no-one has checked out for far too long.

She knows the seasons have changed, because when she leaves to go out, the grey and gusts coldly persuade her to come back before too long.

Other stuff too. Bad- cold food then no food, cold water then no water to run, heater broken, gas turned off, and then all darkness once the sun set. Candles, but they left too. Melted down and ran away, smaller and smaller then gone.

How does she eat? She takes what she can get- the Cheetos weren't hers yesterday afternoon. Now they are. Got to be fast and sneaky so no-one knows. But then, the boys her age don't look after the stuff they carry. They dump the backpacks to race for the computers (she cannot use them as the adults at the desk have to open up an account and anyway, she doesn't have a home address when they ask for one), and she always makes sure Dora can be found amongst them, so she pretends to open up along the broken black teeth, and hungry eyes hunt for stuff to grab when games make everyone look away.

They don't know, and probably guess they ate the snacks at lunch. She only takes small crackers and nuts, apples and oranges too, because she knows they won't eat the healthy stuff that's carefully packed. And she reckons they have lots more at home. Real homes have cream-coloured cupboards full of wondrous meals, that are served steamed hot, as much as a person could eat. Real homes that never get empty. She remembers blueberry roll-ups and bubblegum (not hers- the other students at school). She can almost taste ham-and-cheese covered by two chunky brown wedges of bread. Her tongue recalls crunchy apple tarts, tangy and sugary and pastry and a dust of snow on top.

The bathroom does not have a shower or bath, so every two days she hustles down the street to the local sports centre- left out the door all the way along Greys Avenue, cut across the abandoned car yard (watch for broken glass 'cause she has just these shoes, no others), dash through the long grasses, jump over Four Oak Creek where no frogs leap, and duck under the supply door at the back. Look for an empty space, lock the door (some don't, so she stretches a leg out to stop the sweaty women who talk loudly about workouts and matcha lattes). Must be fast or someone asks and looks at her. Fuzzy towel out of Dora, clothes off and neatly put where they won't get wet. Small bottle of soap- always leave some for the next.

Get dry, rough cloth all over. Back out the door, through the grass, over the creek, across the yard, dash down Greys, back up the stone steps (eleven- odd number) and calmly through the doors that move around and around, safe and secured by the place of pages. Where she needs to be.

How long now? She scratched a mark for every day onto the smooth chestnut surface of the Fantasy shelf, but that was before she stopped. One day, she forgot. And after that, why bother?

The sports centre she goes to get clean, but there are others too. Department store two blocks away (when the sun warms her feet she goes) for soap samples. The football shop at the end of Greys has ankle socks, as many as she can carefully tear the labels off of and pull under her raggedy blue ones. Pretends to try on boots, pretends to look for Dad when the teenage helper comes along. Pretend, pretend, pretend.

The supermarkets keep her sated, but she can't go too often. Too dangerous- they catch her and who knows. She can get a free vegetable samosa from the corner store, so that's one place she refuses to steal from. Hunger stopped by potato and curry and steam and peas. The old lady at the counter doesn't ask, though they both know she sees past the brave young face before her. The only one who does.

Why does everyone else overlook her?

Because they don't want to see. Heads down, bent to a phone, scared to look up as they may encounter others. All absorbed by the world they hurry through, never to pause. Adults have enough-to-carry-on-thank-you-very-much, and see no more than they allow themselves.

She counts the books, but can she read? Enough to get by. But to read properly you need energy and focus, and her sleep won't allow for any extra of that. Small arms turn heavy sheets over and over, but whenever she does her eyes droop and doze and that means danger. So she keeps busy; she looks at people, she keeps the place of pages clean, she searches for treasure that people drop on the floor, she scans the cartoons full of happy colours, she draws at the free table when seats are empty, and of course, she eavesdrops on Story Hour.

Story Hour- when all the smallest ones gather, hugged by the arms of a parent or aunty or uncle, and are transported to a far-away place (further than Four Oak Creek), of wondrous beasts that play and fly and battle, of frozen lakes and scorched sand and grass so soft you could sleep when you lay down, and most of all, of people- merry and gentle and and fun.

She could stay there forever, threaded through those made-up worlds as though they were her own. Or even Story Hour; she could hunker down on the floor and stay near the warm and cosy corner all day, surrounded by the laughs and the beams and the babble.

But she cannot stay absorbed by the place of pages for too much longer.

She knows that sooner or later, she'll mess up. Sooner or later, a person may ask about that young lady sat on the yellow couch by the Sports shelves, damp curls and unwashed shorts, small legs unable to rest on the floor. Sooner or later, they'll take her away from here, from the clumsy attempts at peace and rest she's crafted.

So what would be better- sooner or later?

She already knows the answer to that, and has for many days now, way before her black pen stopped the marks, four notches and a slash, four notches and a slash, small hands unable to pretend anymore.

"Stay here and we'll read the next book you choose. Mummy comes back soon, okay? Don't go anywhere."

How could she leave?

She wanders down a row, reaches up to a random shelf, takes a book off because the front has green and purple embossed all over, trudges gently back to her corner, and slumps down neatly, small body and bean-bag together.

Sooner.