The Simple Cost of Connection

Watching a highway on a rainy night was one of the most peaceful activities.

Cars rolled by, sometimes in groups and other times in solidarity, creating V-shaped tread marks in the deep, murky brown puddles that settle underneath the overpass. Most of the drivers ignored me, let me be, let me just watch. They are always there, day or night, speeding to their next locations or settling in for a long journey. I doubt that normal girls watch passing cars in their free time, but I haven't been in school for over a year, so I couldn't be sure either way. I knew my mother needed me more than my judgey teachers and classmates did. So I quit. I didn’t regret it, but I missed having someone, anyone around.

Families — some with four or five members, others with just two — seemed to explode with emotion as their cars rolled by. They yelled music lyrics, laughed with each other obnoxiously, or shouted swear words empty of bitterness and anger. I could only dream of fostering such a connection with another.

I snuggled under the crunchy blanket I'd stolen from a yard sale a few blocks north. Fall was beginning to set in and they obviously didn't need it. I’d learned the difference between wants and needs very quickly. Wants are things like new clothes, shoes that fit, even a brush to detangle my matted, nearly black, long hair. Needs were food and water and occasionally medicine when my flu spells became too much to bear and, of course, my settling spot underneath the overpass. It was the closest thing I had to a home.

Three cars approached my highway area, the headlights appearing as brilliant diamonds that faded into a more even glow as they got closer. I squinted, trying to guess the year the car was made and sighed when I couldn't catch the manufacturers' marking on the trunk. I definitely needed glasses, but, at last, that was on the 'wants' list. Yet another family passed, this time two girls, dancing horribly to some techno song that hadn't infiltrated the main cities I roamed. Their moves were atrocious, but their laughter simultaneously warmed my heart and ruined my mood.

You'd think more people would drop spare change into the dirty, mossy green moccasins of a 17-year-old girl with big doe brown eyes, tan brown skin, and a slim, underweight figure. I didn't like to use my body for money. I respected those who did, it just wasn't my MO. But if a passerby needed to give me a once-over before dropping $2 in my shoes, I didn't object. Beggars couldn't be choosers, after all. I tried not to get attached, tried not to imagine a stranger following me back to my overpass spot, sweeping me off the crunchy blanket, and running off into the sunset. It sounded a lot like stalking, but it felt different. It was romantic, so I thought. I wanted to be saved, but I didn’t want to feel like I was being saved. For once in my life since I’d been homeless, I wanted someone to look at me and say ‘Hey, she’s actually worth more than her body. Let’s give her a chance.’

My mother would be very unamused.

Nevertheless, people only cared if there was something in it for them. They didn’t want to play super hero. They didn’t give the little brown girl the time of day, and they made it clear I was nothing more than a pretty face to look at in exchange for a few pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. I wasn’t even worth their dollars.

The wind picked up to a mild breeze as the rhythmic hum of the rain droplets rang in my ears like my mother's lullaby. My ankle stuck out from under the old fleece, rain drenching the exposed flesh within seconds. I didn't mind, though. I couldn't imagine the next time I’d shower. Usually, I'd sneak into the community pool, camouflaged by the wave of eager teens and stressed families. Then I’d busy myself in the mirror, pretending to play with my dying hair or observe the countless red spots and pimples on my face and neck until the final bystander left the locker room. Counting to ten to ensure no one trickled back in — I had a little pride, I was my mother’s child — I’d rummage through the lockers until I found an unlocked one, helping myself to their soap to scrub the grime from my hair and clothes. I wasn’t picky; Men’s and women’s soap did the job equally as good. I usually didn’t have the time to dry my garments, so I’d throw them on while damp and stroll out the front door after placing everything back where I found it.

“Oi, Mami,” one of the owners called out one day, “Wetbacks aren’t exempt from the rules. You pay to shower.”

I tried to keep walking to avoid confrontation. I was a first generation Puerto-Rican, so I was no more an “illegal immigrant” than he was. Plus, at least my ancestors didn’t steal land.

“Oi!” the owner called again, louder and more aggressive this time. “Habla Inglés perra?”

I turned on my heel, crossing my arms and tilting my chin up defiantly.

“I speak English just fine,” I yell back. “And I’m not a b*tch, watch yourself. I just needed a quick shower.” I started to walk away, before turning back again. “And it’s ‘Habla usted Inglés’”

They continued to badger me until the day they closed, calling me Mexican slurs and threatening to call the cops on me just to see me squirm. I hated it, but the next closest spot to bathe was miles south — too far to trek twice a week. People like them made me believe a strong human connection was just a childhood dream and I would be alone forever.

As I drifted to sleep, my dreams flooded with make-believe images for my future. I'd marry, eventually, a guy or girl who had a house, running hot water, and could afford to get me glasses. My spouse and I would have two kids, a girl and a boy, whose Puerto Rican features would be defined, their thick hair styled beautifully and cleanly on top of their heads. My hair would grow thicker like it had been when I was younger, and my collarbone would be less exposed in my favorite yellow tank top. We would be a family.

We’d have a strong love that floated throughout the rooms like air — breathable, refreshing and real. We’d drive on the freeway where I currently slept, and my son would point to that tattered blanket, and I’d laugh, faintly remembering my past life. My heart would swell with appreciation of my current life, and I’d wipe my eyes from the joyful tears that dampened my cheeks. My spouse would catch the spare tears, smile, and mutter “I love you, Alana.” We'd finally return home, a bricked humble place with a black and white interior. I’d rush to the electric stove to finish dinner — empanadillas, of course. The heat from the pans wouldn’t be able to match the warmth I felt flowing through my now-well-nourished body. After finishing, I’d walk to retrieve the family, where I'd watch my spouse playfully tackle my son onto our perfect green grass and then toss my daughter into the air. We’d be happy.

I sighed, tucking my feet in. Human connection was just that: a dream.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Today was an eating day.

I broke my week into two categories, both to preserve my sanity and my dignity. Every three days, I would venture into the city and try to find food. I'd gather as much as possible, buying some with the spare change I earned while outright stealing the rest. It used to make me feel horrible, the guilt of robbing someone of their livelihood resting heavily on my stomach for days. However, I learned to swallow my guilt with the bottles of Ice Mountain water I'd down within minutes to make up for my excessive dehydration. As my mother used to say, "The line between moral and immoral blurs with each step towards desperation."

I really missed my mother.

The days between eating were for getting as many resources as possible for an eating day. I flaunted a little more for spare change, traveling three miles north to the central city of Cathair. Vendors greeted me at the boundary line, ringing shrill bells and waving bright flags to catch my attention. Dancers marched and stepped through the center of the businesses. Activists handed out flyers about abortion, immigration, and terrorism, and somehow all three were connected. Rich white men yelled stupid deals at unsuspecting passersby, hoping to profit off those who barely were able to make ends meet.

"2 for $25, get new pairs of sneakers, 2 for $25!" one would yell. "A special deal for a special lady."

They'd wink, glancing down my body, gawking at my breasts. Those men weren't family material. They were hardly one-night-stand material. The thought of their hands touching my body almost made me throw up what little food my stomach contained. Plus, my body could never handle such an intrusion, not even for a desperate few dollars. I scarcely contained my eye roll but forced myself to give a tight smile as I hurried to an open spot and sat, flipping my sweaty thin hair flirtatiously and batting my long eyelashes. I looked disgusting, but white men were suckers for long eyelashes. More importantly, rich white men were suckers for "innocent" brown girls who they knew they couldn't touch. The thought alone was enough to get them erect in their fancy slacks before dropping a few dollars in my moccasin. I knew how to play the game; I just hated it.

I wanted real, raw human interaction. A connection. A vibe. The men who dropped four cents and savagely searched my body as if they earned the right to do so were the same ones who took it upon themselves to beat an innocent woman — my mother — stealing tacos when she was clearly homeless. I hadn't been out of school long enough to forget that brown girls weren't appreciated in Cathair. What's worse, I didn't even know my mother was dead until I wandered to the taco stand and saw the policemen shaking their heads at an "unavoidable tragedy." I never got to bury her. I never saw her again.

So no, I don't want these men. They could go to hell.

But today was a small break from those actions. I would have to steal food, but at least I wouldn't have to contemplate heading to Cathair for a long-winded dollar or so. Rinsing my face and hair in a puddle of last night's rainwater, I worked the dirty locks into a single French braid, sighing as clumps of black strands tangled in my thin fingers and fell onto the broken cement. Placing an old cardboard box on top of my blanket — I'd lucked out with that discovery, I couldn't have it stolen — I trudged into the small suburb of Baile.

Baile was almost as alive and vibrant as Cathair, just with fewer people. The area was predominantly white and middle class, with family-owned shops and restaurants and bars and grocery stores lined up and down the asphalt street. I smiled a closed-lipped smile at a younger boy, strolling alongside what I assumed to be his mother, who responded with a toothy grin, his front tooth missing from his adorable, bright smile. The lady glared, tugging the small boy towards her slim frame and crossing the street, muttering "Crackhead" under her breath.

Rude, much?

As I continued down the street, I paused outside a tall building. The smell of empanadillas, pollo guisado — Puerto Rican chicken stew —, and Arroz con gandules — rice, pigeon peas, and pork, cooked in the same pot with sofrito — wafted from the restaurant onto the narrow sidewalk. My stomach growled violently in response, and I winced, the force of my hunger nearly causing me to double over. I nodded "I'm okay" at the nearby patrons, composing myself and pushing into the salon-like building. Tables decorated the perimeter, covered with tablecloths that resembled my home. Small floral centerpieces complemented the tables with red, white, or blue, and in the far back, the American flag was displayed next to another Puerto Rican flag, albeit an inch higher, for respect reasons, I always assumed. The wooden floors shined in the yellow fluorescent lights, the distinct smell of lemon polish noticeable among the other aromas. Waitresses sped around me, carrying silver plates filled with familiar dishes that made my mouth water.

It reminded me of my childhood. Home. My younger self would waddle into the kitchen excitedly as my mother finished dinner, offering a spoonful for me to taste. I would pretend I was a food critic, giving my mother a 10/10 every time. My heart hurt as I sighed — I missed those moments.

I hoped the food wasn't expensive, as I only had five dollars to spend and a small purse to fill with more food and water. Taking a seat at a booth near the window, I smiled at the waitress as she came over. Introducing herself as Logan, the waitress set a menu in front of me, winking as she poured me a glass of water. I opened the plastic menu and winced. Why were the prices so high? My five dollars would get a large order of fries, a chicken burrito, or a kids hamburger the size of my fist. Contemplating my options, I start to stand to leave when Logan comes back over.

"Can I start you off with an appetizer?" Her southern twang made me feel worse — I already hated stealing, and Logan seemed so kind. I sighed again, sitting back in my seat.

The line between moral and immoral blurs with each step towards desperation, as my mother would say.

Forcing a smile onto my face, I shook my head, ordering three empanadillas — my mother’s favorite —, a small order of pollo guisado, and fries. Logan winked flirtatiously, placing her hand on my shoulder and giving me a once over.

“Darling,” she purred. “ I will get that to you as soon as possible.”

I returned my best flirtatious smile, nodding as she sauntered away. The waitress returned about 15 minutes later, the savory smell coasting ahead of her to my table. My stomach growled forcefully. Oh, my, the pollo guisado was magnificent. The warm broth warmed my insides, the potatoes filled me up quickly, and the carrots and chicken were beautifully seasoned with a slight spicy taste of chili peppers. I had to stop myself from moaning out loud.

After finishing, I paused as Logan set to-go boxes on the table and left to get the bill. How was I supposed to get out of here with the rest of the food? Darting my eyes around the room, I noticed the restaurant was getting busy, customers filing into the dining area in large groups of five or six. Logan was across the room, greeting two new tables while balancing a pot of coffee. She was distracted. Now’s my chance.

Shoving the food into the styrofoam, I jumped up, darting through the crowd towards the door. The setting sun gleamed through the glass like the light at the end of a tunnel. I was almost there.

“The register is the other way, sweetheart.”

I froze, tilting my head up towards the now-angry woman’s face. Logan’s wrinkled features were red, her eyes squinted in annoyance and her arms crossed in disbelief. I must’ve resembled a fish out of water, stammering for a reply.

“I knew that,” I offered. “I was just stepping out to make a call.”

Smooth, Alana.

"They give homeless thieves phones now?" Ouch.

"You can take the food back," I started, pushing the boxes towards the now-angry woman. "I only ate the pollo guisado, so I can pay for that–"

"Why don't I call the police instead?" Logan grabbed her cellphone from the small clamp that hung around her waist and began to dial.

"Wait!" I panicked. Police meant going to a shelter or jail, which meant my mother would be terribly disappointed in me. "Puerto Rican women can fend for themselves," she'd always boast. "No white man will wipe the sweat of his brow and give themselves a pat on a back for saving a brown woman!"

"What seems to be the problem?" A man said, inserting himself between Logan and me, facing the fuming waitress.

Logan and I looked towards him, tears running down my dirty face. The man was tall with dark brown hair — lighter than mine but still dark — deep brown eyes, and a broad tree-like frame that made my bird-like figure shiver in comparison. His presence demanded attention. His jawline was sharp and set; he looked angry, but his leisure pose suggested he was calm, collected, controlled. He wore dark shades on top of his head, a maroon hoodie draped across his free arm.

"She's a thief." Logan spat, glaring at the man.

"She's clearly homeless," The man shot back. "Cut her some slack."

I glared at the two. I was sitting right there; they could've at least pretended to notice. He glanced in my direction, tilting his head and shrugging as if to say “Sorry.”

"This is a family restaurant,” Logan screamed, getting the attention of nearby tables. “I have bills to pay!"

The man raised his eyebrow in brief shock and chuckled, shaking his head.

"Fine. Then I'll pay her tab." Now I was shocked. No one gave me money without wanting anything in return. Suddenly, I was both suspicious and grateful for this man.

Logan sighed, tucking her phone back into her pocket, much to my relief. The man held up a finger, telling me to wait as he followed the fuming woman to the counter.

Yeah, I wasn’t going to wait.

As soon as they were out of earshot, I fumbled out of the door into the cold evening air. I didn't trust anyone in that restaurant as far as I could throw them and judging by my size, that wasn't very far. I looked left, then right, then left again, trying to remember which way I'd come from. The town buzzed with activity, the noise slightly disorienting. Maybe it was the confrontation with Logan. Perhaps it was the odd feeling of a full stomach.

"Why'd you run?"

I squealed, dropping one of my boxes, which was, unfortunately, my empanadillas. I scowled at the man, who winced apologetically and took a step back. I made him nervous. Good.

"I can buy you some more?" He offered.

"I don't need your help," I began walking away, hoping the man wouldn't follow. "Plus, Logan is clearly not a fan of me."

"I never said you needed my help!" He called from behind, jogging to match my stride. There was no way I could outrun him — I was too weak and much too small. I sighed.

"I'm Noah, by the way." He offered, and I stopped abruptly, causing him to jump sideways to avoid crashing into my back.

“I’m not a prostitute,” I glared, crossing my arms. “You won’t be getting anything from me.”

"I just want to help you get some food, maybe a shower?" He eyed me up and down, to which I only took a slight offense. I knew I looked terrible.

“What? Am I a charity case? I’ll call the police,” I was bluffing, of course. The police were the last people I’d involve, but I didn’t know what to make of this guy. Why was he trying so hard? Most men would’ve given up, called me a racial slur, and went on with their day.

“How about this?” He stood in front of me, bending slightly to meet me, eye-to-eye. I felt like I was being comforted by an older sibling or a mentor of some kind. I wasn’t sure if I liked the feeling, but I knew I didn’t necessarily hate it. “We walk together a bit down the way. Get to scope each other out, feel the vibe. If you decide I’m a douche by the time we reach my car, I’ll leave you alone. No questions asked.”

"Do you normally go around picking up young girls and helping them ‘shower?'" I mocked air-quotes with my free hand. My voice had lost its bite a bit, which either meant I was starting to trust this guy or I was really dumb. Noah laughed at that, shaking his head again. All this guy did was laugh and shake his head. It oddly annoyed me. I really was my mother’s child.

"No, but anyone who's not white and willingly goes into that restaurant must have limited options," he said.

We continued down the street at a more leisurely pace, the sun just barely above the horizon in the distance. I decided that I oddly trusted Noah, yet didn't trust him. He'd asked basic questions: How long had I’d been homeless? 7 months, 3 on my own. How often did I eat? Not often enough. How old was I? None of his business. Noah sent me a side-eye with the last answer, shaking his head and laughing, again.

We reached a small pavilion and sat on the bench, too entranced in the conversation to notice the darkening sky. It was odd speaking to him. He spoke slowly, yet confidently, pausing to think before each sentence to assure top word choice precision. His right hand motioned to and fro as he went about his questions, occasionally looking over to meet my gaze through his dark sunglasses. I kept up a guarded demeanor, but I enjoyed the attention. When was the last time someone had willingly spoken to me about themselves without the expectation of sex? I couldn't remember.

He mentioned that he was 25, "fresh out of college with a useless business degree," is how he worded it. He had gotten the car as a graduation gift from his parents and was currently living in a penthouse apartment where he pays half-rent until he "gets on his feet."

"I'm privileged" is all that I really heard.

After what felt like 10 minutes, but in reality, was over an hour, Noah honked the alarm on a nearby car, a silver 2017 Toyota Corolla .

“It’s getting dark,” He mused, glancing towards me. “Have I passed your tests? It’s pretty unsafe to walk through this town at night.”

Noah pushed his sunglasses to his forehead, and I could see a hint of worry in his eyes, like he was suppressing it. I hesitated again, more unsure now than outside the restaurant. Noah sensed my hesitation and raised an eyebrow, pushing off the bench towards the car.

There he goes. I knew he’d give up sooner or later.

To my surprise, Noah opened the passenger door, standing beside it with an expectant look. To his surprise, I stood and walked over. He offered a toothy grin as I rolled my eyes and got in, and he followed suit, starting the engine. The purr of the ignition was soothing, and I snuggled in the seats. Noah didn't notice that I was smiling too.

The apartment was enormous, to say the least. The front entry opened to his vast living room. The floors shined with polished black tile, a black shag rug running from the door to the back of the unit. To the right, the entire wall was a window, the glass a thin barrier between us and the rest of Baile. Noah's couches were made of bright white microfiber — I was worried my filth would ruin the nice upholstery — and a large TV hung from the opposite wall, an Xbox sitting on the small table below it. The kitchen was to the left: white padded stools traced the edge of a black marble bar, with stainless steel appliances lined up, sparkling and winking with the light. I was sure Noah never used his kitchen or only used it when absolutely necessary. He was a man, after all, and a rich one at that.

Noah dared to be embarrassed. "I don't pay for it, so I can't really flaunt it around," he said.

He sat my styrofoam boxes on the bar and ushered me to his bedroom. A sizable queen-sized bed. Four fluffy, thick pillows. A closet with a full-body mirror? I winced —Let’s not look at my reflection again until I showered. Noah took my hand, led me to the connected bathroom, and turned on the shower, adjusting the heat.

"Is this your polite way of saying I stink?" I joked.

"Yes," he laughed, reaching into a small dresser next to the bathroom sink. "These are my younger sisters' clothes, they may be able to fit you while we wash yours." He offered me some black leggings and a black top that said, "Dope." I let the garments rest in my arms as I stared at him. There has to be some motive for his kindness, right?

“Anyone ever told you you’re too nice?” I ask softly.

He flashed a smile, shrugging off the compliment and exiting the bathroom. The steam began to fog the mirrors, and I ruffled my hair, more black strands falling out into my dirty hands. Sighing, I stepped into the shower.

That should’ve been the end of it. I should’ve showered, taken my empanadillas, and left. If I were in survivor Alana mode, I would’ve taken a few dollars — not too many, to spare my conscience — my clean clothes, the new set of clothes and left.

My mother’s voice in the back of my head was telling me to leave. My previous experience with rich men was telling me to leave. My “Hey, remember you’re a homeless brown girl with literally nothing!” meter was screaming at me to leave.

But, I’d gotten used to his morning wake up routine of working out in the complex’s gym at 6 a.m. I’d gotten used to cooking breakfast, where he’d return and greet me, hair pushed back under a snapback and headphones loud enough that I could hear the music.

I’d gotten used to his Friday nights, where he went out with friends routinely, leaving me alone in the large apartment. Noah would stumble home after having one too many beers at the local bar and get touchy-feely. I’d shrug him off, smiling and ushering him to bed. The morning after, he would apologize profusely. He never went further than a few not-so-innocent words and kisses so I never felt like I was in any harm. I enjoyed our friendship too much to make a big deal about it.

So I stayed. For six full weeks.

I couldn't explain it, really. He was like the sibling I never had, though astonishingly good looking. Unfortunately, he was 25, so instead of doing anything with that attraction, we did everything else. He taught me how to play Call of Duty, and commented on my skills, calling me "frighteningly awesome.". I wasn’t the best, and I was almost sure he just let me win, but I accepted the compliment.

We talked for hours at a time about anything and everything, from Baile to moving to a big city like New York City or San Francisco to our favorite color and our least favorite color. Noah was part Irish and wished to visit the country later in life. I told him about Puerto Rico, my home, about my mother, about her death. Silence followed, an odd sound between us, and I briefly worried I'd ruined everything. But Noah squeezed my arm reassuringly and changed the subject. We talked about passions and dreams and nightmares and why stars appeared the way they did in the dark night sky.

"They sparkle in your eyes," Noah joked.

"Pulled that right out of a Rom-Com?" I quipped back.

As usual, he would smile, laugh and shake his head.

Noah insisted on buying me new clothes, which made me feel guilty. He already allowed me to stay there without paying a dime, eat whatever I wanted, and sleep on the more than comfortable couch after I refused to take his bed. Nevertheless, Noah ordered a hoodie, two pairs of jeans, four plain t-shirts, and some shorter biker shorts for sleeping. I insisted on paying him back somehow, but he just shook his head and laughed.

"You don't owe me anything," he would always say.

Noah gave me what I’d been longing for since my mother and I lived on the street, and desperate for since she passed. He was friendly, genuinely interested in my life, and made me smile with the small compliments he’d drop here and there.

After some time, I decided to cut my hair. It was pretty much dead anyway, just remnants of my old homeless life. So I cut it to shoulder length and applied some HairGrowNow serum that Noah picked up that tingled as I messaged it into my scalp. It was a Friday evening, and as usual Noah was out with friends. I skipped into the kitchen and began to make food, when Noah's arms wrapped around my waist, startling me. I thought I was alone. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to pull away. And plus, he wasn’t hurting me. Surely I could endure a hug from someone who literally pulled me off the streets.

After a few moments of swaying side to side in silence, Noah pecked the side of my neck three times, right behind my ear. I involuntarily stiffened, jolting my head in the other direction. Relax Alana, I told myself, he can do what he wanted. It was his house. The pungent stench of alcohol weirdly reassured me. Of course, he was tipsy. This had happened multiple times before. He wouldn’t hurt me.

However, Noah's kisses became harsher, and I winced, turning the fire off on the stove. I spun in his arms, shooting him a look.

"You're doing it again." I said.

"What am I doing, exactly?" Noah tugged me towards him, continuing his assault on my neck. "Admiring a beautiful girl in some very short shorts?" He giggled like a schoolgirl, hiccupping.

I blushed. My warning bells were reemerging: my mother, my experience, my identity screaming to get the hell out of there. But they were wrong before, they could be wrong now. "A beautiful girl who is way younger than you?"

Noah paused. "You never told me your age."

"What?"

"You never told me how old you were." He sounded annoyed, another odd occurrence between us. We never annoyed each other before. "So they couldn't take me to jail because I didn't know."

I knew that's not how the law worked, but there was no use arguing with a drunk man. "That's not the point. You know I'm underage, despite not knowing my actual age."

Noah paused again, eyeing me up and down. His demeanor was different than the Noah who told me his favorite color was lime green because it was unique and that backpacking across Europe was on his bucket list before 40. His jaw was set in annoyance, and he was digging into my waist, white fingers bruising the brown skin. My stomach turned; he started to remind me of the men in Cathair who gave me money. It seemed so long ago.

"Haven’t I passed your tests?" Noah raised an eyebrow, a hard stare piercing through my soul.

"What?"

"Haven’t I passed your tests?" Noah reiterated. "The guy who pulled you off the streets and gave you a nice place to stay. Don’t you think I’ve earned something in return? I don’t ask for much."

I let out a forced laugh, expecting Noah to break into his award-winning smile, shake his head, and pull away. But he didn't; he stared, eyes blank, and waited for a response.

"I–" I started. He was right; he'd done everything for me. Noah was my literal savior. He made me believe in genuine human connection again, made me believe that people were decent and friendship was possible and that my life wasn’t over because I was homeless. My life didn’t end with my mother. He made me believe I could still be happy, that happiness was tangible and achievable and not reserved only for those more fortunate than me. After all that, after he re-lit my spark, would I report him?

No.

Noah smirked, stepping back and taking my hand. "Shall we? I'll make it worth your while."

He smiled the smile that I loved but now made my stomach churn and my skin crawl. Swallowing the lump in my throat — I will not cry — I followed the broad man into his dimly lit room.

The clothes left my body quickly and suddenly, just as my walls had fallen six weeks ago.

The first pain I felt was physical — despite the month of decent nutrition, my womanhood was still underdeveloped and malnourished. I hadn't had a menstrual period in months, so my body was not prepared for such an intrusion. I winced, shutting my eyes. As best as I could, I blocked out the repeated violation of my autonomy, my sense of self, my space. My body reacted as it should: I flinched, squirmed, cried out loud, sobbed silently. It was as if I was a spectator to the events taking place, watching intently, leaned forward, popcorn in hand, observing all the tiny details of my lost innocence on a bright LED screen.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted it to end. I cried for my mom, who I knew would be disappointed in me. I wished I’d let Logan call the police. I wished I’d never gotten in his car. I hated our first conversation, my ignorance, his audacity. I wanted it to end. I contemplated death — for him or myself, I didn’t know —until my mother’s words rang in my head.

The line between moral and immoral blurs with each step towards desperation.

The second pain I felt, after the fact, was emotional. Noah murmured a small "Thank you" as he drifted to sleep, and the tiny words knocked the air out of my lungs. I stood shakily, blood staining the satin sheets where I’d laid. I picked up the discarded shirt and rubbed my private area, patting gently when the pain became too strong. I found my old tank top, freshly cleaned, along with the black leggings and my reliable sweatpants, and pulled them both on. Finally, I turned toward the large bed, covering my mouth as sobs threatened to escape.

Thank you?

Was it pathetic that I didn't want to leave? Was it disgusting that I just wanted Noah to lay with me near the window and talk about the stars, our dreams, our passions, this nightmare? I glanced at his sleeping figure one more time, the remains of my dream of genuine human connection, no strings attached, before walking out into the cold night.

The street was silent. It pitied me, pitied my child-like dreams and my wishes upon stars that just don’t come true. I pitied myself. I could only imagine what my mother would say.

Puerto Rican women can fend for themselves. No white man will wipe the sweat of his brow and give themselves a pat on the back for saving a brown woman!

Well, one white man can.

The weight of my mother’s disappointment made me sob harder. I was disappointed in myself. I let my guard down, fell right into the trap I promised myself I wouldn't after my mother’s death. Tears fell silently as I ran a shaky hand through my freshly cut hair. All I wanted was a friend. Someone who understood me. No strings attached. That's all I’ve ever wanted.

I found myself back at the overpass. Two or three cars passed by, and I squinted at the bright headlights. I still needed glasses. My stiff blanket still lay there, untouched, under the cardboard box. Wrapping my cold body with the fleece, I sighed, waved goodbye to my home for the last time, and continued on.

Cathair was just as quiet as Baile at night. The vendors were gone, their wooden storefronts turned off until the following day. I limped through the square toward the central park, taking in the slight chirp of a few restless birds as I passed under a large oak tree towards the city’s fountain. Ignoring the sprinklers as I crossed the grass, I tucked the blanket tighter around my small body, the wind picking up its midnight chill. My eyes throbbed from all my crying. I looked horrible, worse than I did when I was homeless. It felt incredulous to think I hadn’t hit rock bottom before.

The center was brightly lit, a small welcome sign above the door with neon lights that read, "You are safe here." I hesitated, sighed, and pushed through the doors. A lady sat at the counter looked up, eyes softening as she took in my present state. She started to speak, perhaps comfort me, but I cut her off, feeling more like my mother at this moment than I ever have before.

"My name is Alana Rivera. I'm 17 years old and a homeless orphan," Tears welled up in my eyes again, and I swallowed hard. "And I need help. Please."

**********************************************************************

I smile sadly as I recall the distant memory, looking out onto the highway. The overpass looks the same as I remembered. Like usual, the freeway is flooded with yesterday’s rainwater as Ford Fusions and BMWs splash their way through the brown swamp. I adjust my glasses on my nose, unraveling my hair from its ponytail. It falls, gently, grazing just beneath my shoulder blades. It used to be so thin like strings of yarn attached to a scalp. Now the thickened hair has volume and grows — even though I preferred to keep it rather short. I wrap my arms around my midsection, recalling when my fingers could trace the details of my ribcage like Braille, my skin stretching tightly against the revealed bones.

Thankfully, the spot I previously called my bed is decorated with fresh graffiti instead of another poor brown girl. I push away from the barrier, mindlessly, wandering into the city that changed my life, for better or worse. The smells of the Puerto Rican restaurant still make my stomach turn, though I am shocked that the restaurant is still open 7 years later. The white Toyota that slows beside me makes my blood run cold for a second, but as it passes, I shake out the nerves, taking a few deep breaths.

Each day gets easier, I remind myself.

A white boy with short black hair and dark green eyes hugs a shorter Hispanic girl with dark hair like mine, pulling her into the fancy vehicle and driving off. I watch as the car disappears over the horizon, hoping that girl won’t be in my office anytime soon.

Continuing past the restaurant, I stroll through the park, where the old men smile and wink in my direction, and I have enough confidence to roll my eyes and flip them the finger. After picking up my lunch from a smaller Thai restaurant along the route, I push into the women’s center. I’d been working there since after I graduated high school about 5 years ago. The owner is helping me pay for community college, where I was working towards a degree in social work. In exchange, I mentored other young rape survivors and homeless young girls. It’s therapeutic in a way.

I nod hello to Bridget, the receptionist who took me in all those years ago. The older woman is reaching retirement age. I would be forever grateful to her and I’m sad to see her go.

Leaving my office door open, I begin sorting through patient files when a small knock catches my attention.

“Ms. Rivera, can I talk to you for a second?” the girl mumbles, running her hands up and down her small arms nervously. “I saw him again.”

I offer a sympathetic smile, ushering the girl in gently. “Of course, my door is always open.”