Hunger

Austin: Back in the System

In the morning I wake from a troubled sleep to find myself in the closet-sized room at the group home. Shit. So it wasn't a horrible dream. I've lost Pixie and now I'm either dead at the hands of one of Ray's henchmen or destined for prison. I'll never see Pixie or Rory again. The hopeless thoughts throb in my head until I have to press my fists into my eyes to make them stop. 

No time to cry. Mourning is a luxury. Make a plan. Survive, survive, survive. 

The familiar thought gets me up and moving. My first priority is finding a phone so I can call Rory and see if she knows some way of getting me out or getting Pixie back. I saw a common area near the entrance when they brought me in last night, so that's where I head first. The room is furnished with two lumpy couches, three beanbag chairs and a TV. A social worker or counselor is sitting at a round wooden table off to the side, and I ask her if I can use the phone I see hanging on the wall next to the TV. It's one of those ancient ones with a spirally cord. 

"We allow calls in the evening between 5 and 9pm. You'll have to wait until then," she says snippily. Yeah, more like I'll wait until you leave.

I hang around the little table pretending to watch TV while she works on a laptop. After I've waited a few minutes hoping she'll take a bathroom break, I give up and start gravitating to the kitchen in search of food.

Most of everybody has gone off to school for the day, so the group home is quiet and feels deserted. It isn't that bad in the daylight. It's still depressing but no longer feels like a prison. I don't find the kitchen, so I go back to the common area to see if that lady is gone yet. Nope, she's still here and so is someone else. A different woman. Another social worker. I've seen enough of them to know them on sight. They're talking to each other in low tones, and the first lady nods at me and makes a come here motion.

As I walk over to where they're standing the new social worker turns to look at me, and without smiling says: "Austin Dolan."

It's the first time anyone has used my real name. Last night I was Evan Smith. That means the police have already pegged us.

"Where is my sister?" I ask.

"Emmie Dolan is in protective custody," she says. "We've been looking for you."

The woman who told me about the phone leaves with her laptop, and the social worker sits down in the vacant seat, putting her cheetah-print purse on the floor. She's holding this paper grocery bag on her lap. I can't help hoping it's food for me, but I doubt it.

"I'm Tia Everidge," she says. "Please, sit down."

She's a heavyset black woman with neon green nails and a bright blue shirt, which peeks out from underneath a black jacket. She holds out her hand, big gold rings on almost all of her fingers. I  don't take her hand. Instead I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her defiantly. They may have me trapped here for now, but I'm not gonna play the game.

Tia doesn't look ruffled by my rude greeting; I figure she must get that sort of thing a lot. I sit down across from her at the table. She reaches into her purse and takes out a notepad and a bunch of papers, which she stacks in front of her. Her eye-shadow is bright blue like her shirt, and she's wearing hot pink lipstick. Her hair falls in big barrel curls, stiff with product, over her shoulders and the top of her back.

"You look hungry," she says to me.

I shrug. I'm fucking starving, but she doesn't need to know that. The last time I ate was yesterday morning. The cops gave me a can of Sprite last night while I waited for a placement, but I was too stressed to drink much of it. There's been nothing in my stomach since.