Help, Please

By Grace Barie

I woke up and rolled over, hungry as always. My stomach grumbled as if to confirm this. My big sister, Jules, is beside me, her auburn hair floating down around like cascades of vines. She is crying, the big drops pour into her lap. When she sees that I have woken she stops.

“Why are you crying?” I ask. 

“Just hungry,” she replies but I know there is something else. 

“Should I get bread then?” I state, to leave her alone for a bit.

 “Sure,” she says.

I go down to Quickie Mart. Thankfully Mr. Rodgers is talking to a customer. I grab our loaf of bread and even grab a PBJ mix. I know Jules will get mad at me for taking more than we need but protein will help the hungry feeling. 

As I put them in my bag the snake inside me churns. I turn and find the least expensive item. A small notebook. It is 25 cents. It is my sister’s unspoken rule to at least buy something. I figure I can give it to Jules. I pay for the book and when I get outside I feel guilty as always, so much that the snake is ingrown in my ribs. I call out softly to myself. I know we can’t pay but one day I hope to walk in and have a decent conversation with Mr. Rodgers before turning and paying for a donut. This hope flutters around me.

I should probably explain my life. It is me and my sister, Jules. We are what you may call homeless, but hope keeps us going. Hope for a future as a teacher. Hope for a house and a reliable family. My mom died when I was three and Jules was six. My dad turned to coke and later died of an OD. As we had no family left, at age eight I became homeless, stealing for meals and living on the floor of an abandoned store. I have lived this way for four years.

We are getting ready for school. Jules is making sandwiches. She really let me have it for the PBJ but I am happy for it. She puts it in a bag and we leave, my books clutched in my hands as there is no money for school supplies or a backpack. As I reach school, I take in the familiar sight of the brown square building and the rusty swings and slide. I hear the sound of kids. As usual I am instructed not to talk about where we live in the fear we will go to foster care and be split up. I hope this never happens, but I still hope for a family. The one time I brought it up Jules got so mad she scared me and told me we have each other. She was also drunk. She claimed she wasn’t, but I know she was. She doesn’t drink much. It is usually to cope with Daddy’s death. Even though he was a crackhead he was still our Dad. The hope dies when I think of Daddy. We had a house, then he made money growing plants. He never said what they were, but I know he was a dealer.

At lunch I sit with a group of girls. I don’t talk much but it is nice to not sit alone. Jessy offers me a carrot stick and a milk which I gladly take. I know it isn’t charity, she is just nice. Jules still frowns upon it calling it charity and ‘we don’t need none’ she utters. Jessy is a Hispanic girl that only speaks Spanish but who I can talk to through the translator app on her phone. After lunch I pack up and head to recess. The one time I can let loose. I do this through soccer. It is my way of coping. I pour my anger and hatred into it. My team wins and I score all our goals. When I finish, hope has filled me again. Hope I can play college soccer, maybe even get a scholarship.

I stay after school to finish a test. When I finish Mrs. Monty, a short, stout, Black lady with more spite than need-be tells me she can take me home. The snake rises from its short slumber. 

“No, no, I can walk,” I contradict.

“No I insist, it is pouring,” she remarks.

For the first time all afternoon I look outside. It is raining hard. It will not be a fun time walking home. Then I realized that I called our beat-up store home. The snake dies down and I reply “okay” inside. I just hope I can trust her.

We use her pink umbrella to get to her car. It is a small white car with rust starting to form. I inform her where to turn. When we are upon it, I realize how beat up “home” is. Instead of stopping there I have her drop me off a few blocks into town. 

“You can’t live here, it is a nail salon,’’ she says. The snake wakes up.

“I will just walk from here,” I stammer.

“Okay,” she states suspiciously. “Just make sure that your parents come tomorrow for a discussion about your poor academic levels,” she replies. The snake wraps around me and stops my breathing. I only did bad because Jules had come back high and I was scared she would be like Daddy.

“They can’t, they- they are busy,” I stammer. She can sense the lie. The snake reaches my heart. 

“How ‘bout I drive you to your real home and speak to your parents,” she accuses.

“Fine,” I say knowing I lost the battle. We don’t talk on our way to the store. When I show her where I live she mutters, “Baby, baby girl you have a lot to explain.”

Jules is on the floor reading our only book. 

“Work done already?” I ask. 

“Yup,” she states. Then she spots my teacher and says to me, “Who is she?”

Mrs. Monty speaks up. “Where are your parents and why do you live here?”

Jules realizes we lost, I can tell by her face. The hope comes again and I am overjoyed. 

Jules speaks. “We are homeless orphans. Our parents are dead. We have been living like this for four years.” 

The whole time my teacher has been quiet but now she speaks, “Would you like help?” At the same time I say ‘yes’ Jules says ‘no’, the hope goes away.

“Well, either I take you in as I have always wanted kids or I report you and you will be split up,” she says. 

My sister asks, “Can me and my sister at least talk it out?”

Sure, that would be great,” she says.

We go outside and as soon as we get there Jules bursts, “Why the heck did you get some lady involved, we were fine.”

Unusually I say, “No, we need help, we live in the hood, you get drunk, and there is no one for me to turn to. I need a family.”

“Fine,” she madly states. “But if we get split up it is your fault.”

“Awesome,” I say and the snake is replaced by a dove. The dove flutters around me, filling me with hope. Hope for a new life. A new family. A hope for the future of opportunity.

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