Free Everyday Hero by Kathleen Cherry Page A

here.”
    He stood. His hand touched Megan’s. He wore a gold bracelet and had a snake tattoo
on his right forearm as well as the anchor on his left. Clusters of fine dark hair
grew on his knuckles.
    “I—don’t know.” Megan stood also, her face flushed.
    “The city’s great. You’ll love it. Don’t let that wack-job slow you down.”
    “You really think I could get a job here?” Megan asked.
    I hadn’t known she wanted to work at Starbucks. I couldn’t work at Starbucks because
then I would have to talk to strangers. Plus, even though I like the smell of coffee,
I don’t think I would want to smell it all the time.
    “Of course,” he said.
    “I’d like to live in the city,” Megan said.
    “You’re young. Ready to live life. The city’s the place for you. You’ll be independent.
You know, live life on your own terms.”
    “I’d like that.”
    “C’mon.” He stepped toward the door, reaching forward as though to take Megan’s
hand. “You won’t regret it.”
    He spoke slowly, drawing out each syllable.
    “No!” I said. The word came out loud.
    “Look, you’ll be fine. I’ll get you another cab,” Megan said.
    “No! You—come—with,” I managed.
    “Not gonna happen,” the man said.
    I looked away and didn’t say anything because he was a stranger, and I am not supposed
to talk to strangers.
    “Look,” Megan said. “The cab’ll take you to your grandparents’ house. You can see
your mom. Go home. I’m good. I’m going to stay here.”
    “At Starbucks?”
    The man laughed.
    “No, I mean with Rob. I’m going to live in Vancouver.”
    “Why?”
    “He’ll let me stay with him and, you know, help me get a job.”
    I didn’t know what to say. There are some things that just are , like kids live in
families, with a mom or a dad or a grandparent or a foster mom—even an uncle, aunt
or older brother. It was like a rule, although I’d never seen it written down.
    “But—he’s not family.”
    She laughed as if I had made a joke. “I’m not that big on family.”
    “But—” The words had gone.
    And then, even though Starbucks wasn’t any noisier or smellier than before, I felt
a cacophony in my head and vomit in my mouth. My hands balled into fists. My breath
came in pants. Thoughts whirled. Blood thumped.
    “What the—” The man moved toward me. His breath smelled of cigarettes. And coffee.
    “Don’t crowd her,” Megan said.
    “I’ll do what I want.” His hand was on my shoulder. I felt the hard outline of each
finger. He pushed his face into mine, so close I could see red veins in his nose,
so close I could see the individual hairs of his rough gray stubble, so close I could
see a polka-dot pattern of pores.
    Then nothing.
    ***
    “Should I call an ambulance?”
    “Maybe water?”
    “What’s wrong with her?”
    The words came as if from a distance.
    Then Megan spoke, her tone strong and clear. “Shut up and give her space.”
    “You’re sure I shouldn’t phone an ambulance?” someone asked.
    “Yeah, you do that,” a man’s voice said. “We’re outta here. Come on.”
    “I shouldn’t leave—”
    “Forget her.”
    My eyelids opened. From my position, curled on the cool red tile, I could see the
man’s cowboy boots. They were a scuffed brown, with heavy heels and pointed, turned-up
toes.
    “’Cause I ain’t waiting,” he said.
    I watched the scuffed brown boots with their turned-up toes step toward the door.
I watched as Megan’s familiar black high-heeled boots followed. Click-clack-click —I
counted the footsteps, pressing my body more tightly into the cold, firm wall.
    “I—” Megan said.
    “Your future’s out there, babe.” He pulled the door open, and the traffic noise suddenly
became loud. “Coming?”
    I heard the movement of Megan’s hand as she pushed it through her hair. “I want out.
I really want out. I’m sorry,” Megan said.
    The door closed.
    ***
    “I’ll call the ambulance,” the girl with the two zits