Free Sketches by Eric Walters Page A

breakfast buffet, even if we were sitting on the curb outside our squat.
    I stretched, trying to work some of the kinks out of my back. When I woke up in the morning I was usually so stiff that I felt like an old woman. Sleeping on the ground, or a desk, or a concrete floor didn’t ever make for a good night’s sleep. Being on the streets meant always being sore, or hungry, or tired, and sometimes all three at once.
    â€œSo what’s up for today?” Ashley asked.
    â€œI figured we hang, see some people, kick around . . . you know, the usual,” Brent answered.
    â€œBut what about making some money?” I asked.
    â€œTaken care of,” he said.
    â€œIt is?” Ashley asked.
    â€œWhat did you think I was doing when I was on my own yesterday?” Brent asked.
    â€œI can think of a lot of things you could have been doing,” Ashley replied.
    It wasn’t unusual for Brent to go off by himself. Sometimes he’d be gone for twenty minutes, sometimes hours and hours. He’d get in a mood, like he was restless, irritated—or maybe like he had something better to do, someplace more important to be. If he hadn’t felt so responsible for me and Ashley, he probably would have been gone more often. One thing we could count on: he never left us overnight.
    â€œWhat I was doing was taking care of us. I got everything we need for today. Everything except water.”
    â€œWater?” I asked.
    He nodded. “You can’t squeegee without—”
    â€œWait! No way! I’m not doing it!” Ashley snapped.
    â€œDoing what?” I asked.
    â€œI won’t be a squeegee kid,” Ashley said. “You’ve seen kids standing on the streets cleaning windshields, haven’t you?”
    â€œYeah, of course,” I said.
    â€œAnd did it look like a lot of fun to you?” she asked.
    â€œIt isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s a good way to earn money,” Brent said, patiently. “Besides, I’ve already got the pail and the squeegees.”
    Brent took the pack off his back, set it down, and opened it up. He produced three squeegees—the metal-and-rubber things you use at a gas station to clean off your windshield.
    â€œYou bought those yesterday?” I asked.
    â€œBought?” Brent asked, sounding shocked. “You are such a kidder! Nobody said anything about buying. I said I got them yesterday.”
    â€œI don’t care whether you made them with your own hands,” Ashley said. “I don’t want to do it.”
    â€œWe have to do something if we want to eat today,” Brent replied.
    â€œThen let’s just panhandle.”
    â€œBut we can get more money by doing this,” Brent said, holding up one of the squeegees.
    â€œAnd we can get more hassles that way, as well,” Ashley said, emphatically.
    â€œSure, there could be some hassles, but—”
    â€œIt’s nothing but hassles!” Ashley shouted, cutting him off.
    â€œAnd because you don’t want to do it, then we just don’t do it, is that what you’re saying?” Brent demanded. “Does that seem fair?”
    â€œIs it fair that we do it just because you want to?” she demanded.
    â€œHow about if we vote?” he proposed.
    â€œFine with me.”
    They both turned to me. I hated it when they did this. No matter which way I went it was guaranteed that somebody would be mad at me. You should never put somebody in the middle like that. It made me think of the last days before my parents finally separated. When it happened, I was almost grateful—at least nobody was yelling at anybody any more. Little did I know what would happen after that. It would make me wish my parents had never split up.
    â€œWell?” Ashley asked me. “What do you want to do?”
    â€œUm . . . I don’t really know.”
    â€œDon’t be a wimp,” Brent said. “Yes or no?”
    â€œYeah, make