Naked

I think about this for a moment. “Some people want to help, but that doesn’t mean they can.”

“Well, then we’ve established that I want to help. So can’t I at least know your name?”

At least she’s trying something other than broken ribs and swollen eyes. But if she’s really as i

“I told you my name,” I say.

Her shoulders deflate like she’s disappointed, and she tucks a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. She takes in a deep breath and pulls out a file from her briefcase. “Will you at least tell me why you’re here?”

“Doesn’t that file already tell you why?”

She looks down. “There’s not much here. It says you go by the name Exquisite.”

“I told you that.”

“The police seem to think you’re a prostitute.”

Of course they do. Other than the smeared lipstick and six-inch heels—clue number one—they’ve seen me in here before. “People make lots of assumptions,” I say.

“So it’s not true?”

I don’t respond.

“Who gave you that black eye?”

“A man who also thought I was a hooker,” I say. Sometimes I impress myself with my ability to spin the truth to my advantage. Sure, the cop thought I was a hooker, because I am. Or was. Or something.

This is one truth she’ll never get out of me.

Her eyebrows rise. “So, a man sexually harassed you, you refused him, and he hit you?”

I shrug. Sounds like a pretty good story to me.

“If that’s the case, why haven’t you made a phone call? A few statements and you’re free to go.”

I blink. She’s got me there. I search for a lie here, something to tell her, some excuse about why I haven’t called anyone, why I still can’t. Instead, I give the kind of answer I truly hate: an honest one. “I don’t have anyone to call.”

The only person I can call, the person who would usually bail me out, is the person who put me here. Sort of. I mean, I kind of put myself here. It must not say it in the file, but I pulled a gun on the cop when he stopped.

Sometimes emotions are too strong to control. He’s just lucky I didn’t pull the trigger.

But Luis is the reason I was on the street with a black eye. Luis is the reason I had nowhere else to go. And now I don’t think I can ever go back.

Once broken, some things never heal. With him, I felt as close to whole as I could get in that little apartment. He found me. Saved me. Loved me.

But now we’re broken, too.

Sarah watches me for an uncomfortable moment like she’s contemplating something, then puts the file down. “Can I show you something?”

My eyebrows pull down in what I’m sure is an unattractive way. “What kind of something?”

She stands and smiles to reassure me. “Follow me.”

Still very confused, but curious, I follow her. The creepy cop is gone now, and we walk down the hall freely. No handcuffs, no guards. I’ve never been this free in a police station. We get to the main entrance, where there are glass cases of posters. A few wanted posters to the right, but the entire left side is covered with about fifty missing person posters.

“Thousands of kids run away each year. Did you know that? With nowhere to go, they often end up in prostitution.” She says it like a teacher or something, talking about a subject we’ll have a test on later, not like it’s something I’ve lived through.

Does she know I’ve experienced this firsthand? Or is this a game, too? A test to see if I’ll slip up and reveal something?

She says, “Those kids don’t realize that their parents still look for them. Some parents never give up.”

I look over all the posters, all the missing children. What kind of lives have they found on the streets? Did they end up like me? Selling themselves for the hope of a new life? How many of these kids are already dead?

Then I see a set of familiar dead eyes staring back at me from one of the posters. The name reads A

The girl is young, i

I’m surprised this is the picture they chose—it’s not perfect enough. Those curls would drive my blond trophy-wife mother crazy.

I almost laugh thinking about what she’d say of my ratty hair now. Or how about the ru

“Recognize any of those girls?” Sarah says.

I shrug. “Nope.”

She seems to believe me, which is good, because I mean it. I never knew that girl, and neither did her parents.

I don’t dare look her in the eye again. Without another word, she takes me back to my cell and I’ll admit, I’m a bit relieved.

“Just hang in there a little longer,” she says.

I don’t have the energy to ask her if she’s done with me, if she plans on questioning me again.

All I know is I ca

The fact that my parents still have missing person posters up, are still looking for me… I’m not sure what to think of it. If they knew where I really was, what I was really doing…

The things my mother would say would be bad enough. But my father? He’d disown me. I’m sure of it.

I pace in my cell. Back and forth, back and forth.

Life would be easier, I suppose, if I were that girl. Normal. Worrying about homework, choir practice, and who would take me to homecoming.

That girl wouldn’t have a bruise forming on her upper arm from being held down, stolen from the one person she loved. That girl wouldn’t be sitting in a cold cell, wondering how the cops will hurt her next.

A

The name rings in my head, a ghost from a past I’ve tried so hard to outrun.

But what I ran to…was it really better?

Guess not anymore.

Good little A

That’s what my parents thought I was. They dressed me up with their expensive clothes, did my hair up in pigtails and curls, put pearls around my neck. Then they expected me to smile and pretend that was what I always wanted—to be just like them. Perfect.

But I’m not. I wasn’t then, and I’m certainly not now.

No, perfect isn’t even close to what I really am. How about dirty? Ruined? Tarnished? Yes, that’s the word my mother would use. Tarnished, like her heart necklace. Once shining with a bright gold sheen, now rubbed and used, its real value exposed. What it always was to begin with.

Cheap.

Chapter Two

The streets of New York are a whole lot more than taxis and tourists and Broadway lights. I learned that the hard way at thirteen years old.

How did pretty little A

I wake up what must be hours later when Sarah comes back to get me. I fell asleep against the cold bars, and my skin sticks when I pull away.

Sarah has dark circles under her eyes now, like she never slept.

My old life is still floating through my head, and now Sarah just makes the memories even more vivid.

Would the thirteen-year-old me be happy about where I am now? What I’ve done? Who I’ve become?

No.

But would I go back and change my decisions?

I don’t know, but that doesn’t really matter now. I can’t go back. I just have to learn to live with myself.