Nobody Came Back

Chapter 5 -> I Was Left

Amara’s POV

Clean clothes used to just happen.

I put dirty clothes in a hamper.

A few days later, they came back clean.

Folded.

Sometimes still warm.

I never thought about quarters.

Or detergent.

Or whether I could afford to wash a shirt.

Now I thought about everything.

I stood outside a laundromat staring through the window.

WASH • DRY • FOLD

Rows of machines spun behind the glass.

My clothes needed washing.

Badly.

So did the sunflower hoodie.

I hadn't washed it since I left home.

I didn't want to.

That didn't make sense.

It was just a hoodie.

But it used to smell like my old laundry detergent.

Like my room.

Like home.

Now it smelled like outside.

I looked down at my suitcase.

One wheel was broken.

Dragging it everywhere had become a fight between me and the sidewalk.

“Come on.”

I pulled harder.

The suitcase scraped behind me as I entered.

Warm air hit my face.

Machines hummed.

Dryers turned.

A little boy sat in one of the rolling laundry carts while his mother folded towels.

He made race-car noises while turning an imaginary steering wheel.

She laughed.

“Boy, get out of there before you crack your head open.”

He giggled.

I looked away.

I found an empty washer near the back.

Then I counted my money.

Again.

Two hundred seventy-six dollars.

And some change.

It looked like a lot when I held it together.

It didn't feel like a lot anymore.

Food cost money.

Laundry cost money.

Everything cost money.

I fed bills into the change machine and scooped up the quarters.

Washer.

Detergent.

Dryer.

I hated watching the money disappear.

I opened my suitcase.

There wasn't much anymore.

I'd already thrown away clothes because carrying everything was too hard.

I hesitated when I reached the sunflower hoodie.

Wash it.

I held it against my chest.

For a second, I could see my bedroom.

My bed.

My desk.

My books.

Mom complaining because I'd left a sock on the bathroom floor.

I'd give anything to hear her complain about a sock now.

Then I remembered the television.

Mom standing outside our house.

Not crying.

Dad saying they were cooperating.

I shoved the hoodie into the washer.

I poured in detergent and started the machine.

Then I sat down.

There was nothing to do but wait.

People came and went.

A woman folded tiny baby clothes.

An older man read a newspaper.

A teenager sat with headphones over his ears while his mother moved clothes into a dryer.

Normal people doing normal things.

Two weeks ago, laundry was boring.

Now sitting somewhere warm felt like a luxury.

My stomach growled.

I ignored it.

That's when I saw the sign.

A piece of white paper taped beside the counter.

HELP WANTED

I stared at it.

A job.

I could get a job.

Adults worked when they needed money.

I needed money.

I could sweep.

Clean machines.

Fold clothes.

Take out trash.

Whatever they needed.

A woman stood behind the counter sorting receipts.

I looked at the sign again.

Go ask.

My legs didn't move.

What if she recognized me?

My missing picture still had long braids.

I didn't look like that anymore.

My hand went automatically to my sunflower clip.

I should've taken it off.

I knew that.

But I couldn't.

“Go ask,” I whispered.

I stood.

The woman looked up when I approached.

“Need help, sweetheart?”

I almost turned around.

Instead, I pointed at the sign.

“Are you still hiring?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to apply.”

Her eyes returned to me.

“For you?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

There it was.

The question that ruined everything.

I'd learned my lesson at the shelter.

Eighteen was stupid.

Nobody believed that.

“Sixteen.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“You in school?”

“Yes.”

“What school?”

I hadn't prepared for that.

“I just moved here.”

“Where from?”

“Another town.”

Her expression changed slightly.

She reached beneath the counter.

“I have applications.”

Hope jumped inside me.

She placed a sheet of paper in front of me.

“I'll need a phone number where I can reach you.”

My hope dropped.

“I don't have a phone.”

“Your parents' number is fine.”

“I can't use theirs.”

“Address?”

I said nothing.

Her eyes moved toward my clothes spinning in the washer.

Then to my suitcase.

“You said you just moved here?”

“Yes.”

“With your family?”

I swallowed.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Why do you need to know?”

My voice came out sharper than I meant it to.

She raised her hands slightly.

“I don't. I'm just asking.”

“I can work.”

“I didn't say you couldn't.”

“I can clean. Sweep. Fold clothes. I learn fast.”

“I believe you.”

“I'll do anything.”

Something changed in her face.

Concern.

I hated concern.

Concern came before questions.

Questions came before people trying to help.

And help meant police.

“What's your name?” she asks.

I hesitate.

“Amy.”

The lie comes too late.

She notices.

“Amy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Amy. Do you have ID?”

“No.”

“Working papers?”

I don't even know what those are.

“No.”

“Your school can help you with that.”

“I can start without them.”

She shakes her head.

“I can't put you to work without paperwork.”

“I don't need a check. You could give me cash.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because that's not how this works.”

“I won't tell anybody.”

“That isn't the problem.”

“Please.”

The word slips out.

Her face softens.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

My stomach growls.

Loudly.

She looks at it.

I cross my arms.

“I said I'm fine.”

“There's a deli next door. I can get you something.”

“I don't need anything.”

She pauses.

“Is there somebody I can call for you?”

Every muscle in my body tightens.

“No.”

“A parent? Relative?”

“No.”

“What about—”

“I said no!”

A few people look over.

My face burns.

The woman lowers her voice.

“Okay.”

I step backward.

“I need to check my clothes.”

“That's fine.”

I hurry away.

My hands are shaking.

Stupid.

Why did I ask?

Of course I couldn't get a job.

I was thirteen.

No phone.

No address.

No ID.

No adult.

Nothing.

I sit in front of the washer and watch my clothes turn.

For one stupid minute, I'd thought I found the answer.

Work.

Make money.

Take care of myself.

Except apparently you needed things to get a job.

An address.

A phone.

Paperwork.

Parents.

Everything led back to parents.

Everything.

---

I wait until my clothes are dry.

The woman doesn't bother me again.

Before I leave, I fold everything carefully.

Every shirt.

Every pair of socks.

The sunflower hoodie.

I hold that one a little longer.

It doesn't smell like home anymore.

It smells like the laundromat.

I don't know why that hurts.

I fold it anyway.

Everything goes back into my suitcase.

The broken wheel catches before I reach the door.

I yank harder.

“Stupid thing.”

The woman looks up.

“Hold on.”

I freeze.

She comes around the counter.

“I have something for you.”

“I don't need food.”

“I didn't say food.”

She disappears into the back and returns holding a small roll of duct tape.

“For the suitcase.”

I stare at it.

“It won't fix the wheel, but you might be able to keep it from catching as much.”

I don't move.

“You can take it.”

“Why?”

“Because you need it.”

Nobody had given me anything just because I needed it in a long time.

I take the tape.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

She hesitates.

“If you ever need—”

“Bye.”

I grab my suitcase and leave before she finishes.

---

The air outside feels colder.

I make it half a block before stopping to mess with the wheel.

The tape doesn't fix it.

But it helps.

A little.

I stand and pull the suitcase again.

Scrape.

Roll.

Scrape.

Roll.

Better.

I keep walking.

Then I see it.

A piece of paper taped inside the window of a convenience store.

A girl's face.

Long pigtail braids.

Gray eyes.

Sunflower clip.

My feet stop.

MISSING CHILD

My face stares back at me.

The old me.

The girl who went to school.

The girl who had a bedroom.

The girl who thought getting grounded was a real problem.

I step closer.

AMARA BENNETT

AGE: 13

There are words underneath.

Police information.

A number to call.

I pull my hood farther over my uneven hair.

People walk behind me.

Nobody stops.

Nobody recognizes me.

I look back at the poster.

Missing.

I hate that word.

Missing sounds accidental.

Like somebody misplaced me.

Like Mom and Dad woke up one morning and discovered their daughter was gone.

Like they searched my bedroom.

Called my friends.

Ran through the streets screaming my name.

That's not what happened.

They packed my suitcase.

They packed my food.

They gave me money.

They drove me to the station.

They watched me standing there.

Then they left.

I wasn't missing.

I was left.

There's a difference.

I reach up and touch my sunflower clip.

The girl on the poster is wearing the same one.

My hand freezes.

Take it off.

I should.

I know I should.

Instead, I pull my hood lower.

Not yet.

I grab the suitcase handle.

The wheel scrapes against the sidewalk.

I keep walking.

I have less than three hundred dollars.

No job.

No home.

No phone.

And now my face is hanging in store windows.

Surviving isn't just finding somewhere to sleep.

It's finding a way to keep going when every door you try to open needs something you don't have.

An address.

Identification.

A phone.

An adult.

I have none of them.

All I have is a broken suitcase, a backpack, a little money, and myself.

So myself will have to be enough.