Page 9 of Brazen Being It

Frankie doesn’t knock. He has his own key to the room. He always gets a key. My key actually. Some nights we sleep under the steps if I don’t come up with enough money for the hotel. No matter how much we switch rooms, Frankie always gets my room key. Momma says he needs it more than me. Which means sometimes after one of my shifts at work, I have to sit outside until my mother comes to and can let me in.

My fingers tighten on the bat. I crack the door an inch and peek out. Just a man. A very attractive man.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Jeans, tight black t-shirt, and a leather vest.

My heart skips again, but not in fear this time. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching me like he’s been waiting his whole life for me. Or maybe it’s my young girl fantasy for someone, anyone to rescue me from this life.

“You dropped this,” he says, holding up a crumpled dollar bill.

I don’t reply. I just stare blankly at him.

He smiles, slow and easy. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

I open the door a little wider. Anxiety fills me. I don’t like strangers and I don’t trust anyone.

“Name’s Little Foot.”

I snort somehow relaxing which surprises even me. “That supposed to be cute?” I remember a movie when I was a kid that came on the free public channel. It had dinosaurs.

He laughs. “I guess it is.”

I stare at him wide-eyed, “Your mom named you after a cartoon dinosaur.” Like who names their kid Little Foot?

“Road-name babe. Little Foot because I used to wear my big brother’s shoes every day even when my mom would say not to, I would always get them and my foot was so little in them. When Axel, that’s my brother, brought me into the Hellions, he tagged me Little Foot. It stuck.”

I step outside, let the door close behind me. No need to let him see my mother in her condition.

“Why you talkin’ to me? Why not keep the dollar?” I ask because seriously who tracks someone to a room over a single dollar.

“Because I saw you yesterday. Picking up change in the lot. Thought maybe you needed a friend.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t need anything from anyone.” I don’t know if I’m aggravated because of my distrust or because more than anything I’m embarrassed.

He nods like he understands. But he doesn’t. No one does. Still, I take the dollar. “Thanks, though, I was missing it.” I lie.

“Anytime,” he says before he does the strangest thing. He hands me a piece of paper with his number scribbled on it.

“In case you ever want to talk.”

He walks off like it’s nothing. But for me? It’s everything. Because for the first time in a long damn time… maybe even ever.

Someone saw me.

Failing to get my mother out of her slump, I go about my afternoon. Frankie doesn’t come and sometimes I swear he does this so she feels the beginning of withdrawal and craves him more. She thinks he is some kind of savior. He’s not a saint, he is the damn devil.

Evening comes, I walk across the street for my shift at the gas station. As soon as I turned eighteen last month, I applied to work here. Thankfully the manager was willing to give me a chance. The night shift sucks but I need money to keep the hotel paid for until we can get an apartment again.

The parking lot is mostly empty, except for a couple of vehicles at gas pumps, and one old Buick that hasn’t moved in three weeks. I tug my hoodie tighter as the wind picks up, the kind that carries dust and forgotten dreams.

Gary is inside behind the counter, reading some crumpled magazine he keeps stashed under the register. He barely looks up when I walk in. Just grunts and slides over to the time clock. He’s older, probably in his fifties. Always sloppy in appearance, not that I can say much given my clothing is always a mess. But I’m clean. I shower every day. I’m not so sure Gary does. He has a beer belly that his rumpled t-shirts barely covers.

“Clean the coffee station,” he says. “And the men’s room.”

“Sure thing,” I mutter. Knowing I do this every night.

The bell above the door jingles behind me as I head to the back. I fill the pot, wipe down the counters, scrape dried creamer off the tile. This job isn’t glamorous. It barely pays. But it’s the only thing keeping me and Momma off the streets.

At 2 a.m., I take my break. I sit out back behind the dumpster, legs crossed, eating a granola bar I stashed in my hoodie pocket. I pull out the paper Little Foot gave me and stare at the number. I think about texting him. Just to see if he meant it.

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