Page 59 of Madam, May I

She did the best she could with everything.

Pain radiated across her chest. Never had she felt so alone. So hungry. So lost inside her own head.

She was no fool. Her stepmother hadn’t even reported her missing because she went to school every day without incident. No police or social workers arriving to see if she was there.

It’s just me, myself, and I.

That was scary.

Some nights, when the twenty-four-hour joints didn’t work, she languished between half sleep and fear in the park on a bench or on the back seat of a bus hoping the driver didn’t notice her back there, worrying that she would be mugged or raped or worse.

And no one would care.

A tear raced down her cheek and landed atop the back of her hand as she gripped her bag in desperation and aching sadness. So much so that she wondered if she should have just stayed at Zena’s.

“And if she dies?”

Desdemona winced at the recollection, reaching inside her front pocket to stroke her heart-shaped locket with her thumb. She was too afraid to wear it around her neck anymore. It was all she had.

“Whaddup.”

She jumped in alarm as she turned, looking up at a man in his mid-twenties in a NewYork Giants jersey, jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s with a fitted hat tilted to the side on his head. Her eyes darted past him to the dark blue Ford Expedition with shiny chrome rims parked at the curb. She could just make out the sound of Jay-Z’s “Money, Cash, Hoes” playing from his sound system.

Her eyes went back to him. Her heart pounded. They were alone, and she was afraid.

He smiled, revealing a gold grill on his bottom teeth. “You a’ight, shawty?” he asked, his voice deep and raspy.

She nodded nervously. “Y-y-y-yes,” she stammered. “Just waiting on my dad. He went to get us food.”

His smile broadened as he turned and hopped up onto the table. “Not true,” he said. “Anytime you come here you’re always by yourself. And you sleep here. By yourself.”

Her eyes darted to the door.

He shook his head and held up his hand. “I’m not on no bullshit. You can leave. This ain’t no stickup. Hell, you ain’t got shit. I’m just tired of seeing you out in these streets alone. Hungry. Struggling. You too fine for that shit.”

“Me?” she asked, taking in his caramel brown complexion and lean features.

“Hell, yeah,” he said, reaching over to stroke her cheek.

She shivered.

He reached in the pocket on the front of his oversize jeans and removed a wad of money wrapped with a red rubber band. “You deserve somebody to look out for you, and I want to be that dude to take care of you,” he said, smooth as ever.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you’re beautiful, and I want you to be my girl.”

“Your girl?”

“Damn right,” he assured her. “What’s your name?”

He was cute. That she couldn’t deny. But . . .

She gave him a smile as she walked past him and over to the door of the laundry. He didn’t stop her as she stepped out onto the street. “Paper Chase” by Jay-Z and Foxy Brown blared loudly. The fact that he left his car running without a care about someone touching it earned her respect.

It meant protection.

She came back inside and walked back over to him and her bag of dirty clothes. “Desdemona,” she finally answered, looking up at him and then shyly looking away.

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