Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(127)

“Would you step into the light so I can see you?”

Doralee did as she was asked, moving reluctantly, as if lifting her red canvas high-top sneakers required superhuman effort. She couldn't be more than fifteen, Francesca thought, although she would insist that she was eighteen. Walking closer, she studied the girl's face. Her pupils weren't dilated; her speech had been hesitant, but not slurred. In New York, if she suspected that a girl was strung out on drugs, she took her to an old brownstone in Brooklyn run by nuns who specialized in helping addicted teenagers.

“How long since you've had anything decent to eat?” Francesca asked.

“I eat,” the girl said defiantly.

Candy bars, Francesca guessed. And Styrofoam cupcakes stuffed with chemical frosting. Sometimes the street kids pooled their money and treated themselves to fast-food french fries. “Would you like to come inside and talk?”

“I guess.” The girl shrugged her shoulders and flipped her cigarette down onto the drive.

As Francesca led her toward the kitchen door, she thought she could hear Holly Grace's scornful voice mocking her: “You and your teenage hookers! Let the government take care of these kids like it's supposed to. I swear to God, you don't have the sense you were born with.” But Francesca knew the government didn't have enough shelters to take care of all these kids. They simply shipped them back to their parents where, all too frequently, the problems started all over again.

The first time Francesca had become involved with a runaway was in Dallas after she'd done one of her early television shows. The subject had been teenage prostitution, and Francesca had been horrified at the power the pimps exerted over the girls, who were, after all, still children. Without quite knowing how it had happened, she'd found herself bringing two of them home and then badgering the social welfare system until they found foster homes for them.

The word had slowly spread, and every few months since then she'd found herself with a runaway on her hands. First in Dallas, then in Los Angeles, then in New York, she would leave work at night to find someone standing outside the building, having heard through the grapevine of the streets that Francesca Day helped girls who were in trouble. Frequently they just wanted food, other times a place to hide from their pimps. Seldom did they say much; they had suffered too many rejections. They just slouched in front of her like this girl, smoking a cigarette or biting their fingernails and hoping that Francesca Day would somehow understand that she was their last hope.

“I have to call your family,” Francesca announced as she warmed a plate of leftovers in the microwave and then set it out, along with an apple and a glass of milk.

“My mom don't give a shit what happens to me,” Doralee said, her shoulders slumped so far forward that the ends of her hair nearly touched the table.

“I still have to call her,” Francesca replied firmly. While Doralee tucked into the leftovers on her plate, Francesca called the number in New Mexico that the girl grudgingly gave her. It was just as she'd said. Her mother didn't give a shit.

After Doralee had finished eating, she began to respond to Francesca's questions. She had been hitchhiking when she saw Francesca pull into the service station and ask for directions to the gravel quarry. She'd lived on the streets of Houston for a while and spent some time in Austin. Her pimp beat her up because she wasn't turning enough tricks. She was starting to worry about AIDS.

Francesca had heard it all so many times before—these poor, sad children cast out too young into the world. An hour later, she tucked the girl into the small hideaway bed in the sewing room and then gently awakened Miss Sybil to tell her what had happened at the quarry.

Miss Sybil stayed up with her for several hours until Francesca insisted she go back to bed. Francesca knew she could never fall asleep herself, and she returned to the kitchen where she rinsed the dirty dishes from Doralee's dinner and loaded them into the dishwasher. Then she lined the kitchen drawers with fresh shelf paper she found in the cupboard. At two o'clock in the morning, she began to bake. Anything to make the long hours of the night pass faster.

“What's that over there, Skeet?” Teddy jumped up and down in the back seat and pointed out the side window of the car. “Over there! Those animals by the hills!”

“I thought I told you to put your seat belt on,” Dallie snapped from behind the wheel. “Dammit, Teddy, I don't want you jumping around like that when I'm driving. You put that seat belt on right now or I'm going to pull this car right off the road.”

Skeet frowned at Dallie and then looked over his shoulder at Teddy, who was scowling at the back of Dallie's neck in exactly the same way Skeet had seen Dallie scowl at people he didn't like. “Those are angora goats, Teddy. People around here raise 'em for mohair to make fancy sweaters.”

But Teddy had lost interest in the goats. He was scratching his neck and toying with one end of the open seat belt.

“Did you fasten it?” Dallie snapped.

“Uh-huh.” Teddy secured the belt as slowly as he dared.

“Yes, sir, “ Dallie reprimanded. “When you're talkin' to grown-ups, you say 'sir' and 'ma'am.' Just because you live in the North doesn't mean you can't have some manners. You understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

Dallie spun around toward the back seat.