Vacant(4)

"You're the best! I can't believe you got us pizza!" She won't stop gushing about how nice I am or how "awesome" the pizza is. When she came over, she looked a bit skeptical, like she wondered what I wanted from her in return, but I didn't even want to think about what that might mean.

Food, clothes, shelter. That's all...

As we eat, I try to think of the best way to bring up her state of affairs. I find that being direct is the best solution. I watch as she inhales her third slice of pizza, I rationalize I need to start referring to Emily by name. Calling her Homeless Girl and Neighbor Girl isn't helpful for either of us. I need to see her as a meaningful person, not a 'problem from next door'. Emily needs to hear her name, if for nothing else, so she knows she exists.

"So, I have a couple questions. I've been thinking about this since last night," I pause making sure she is receptive to my inquiry. She nods indicating her permission. "Question number one: Where are your parents?" She eyes me quickly, and then takes a bite of pizza, chewing slowly.

She's stalling.

"I don't know my dad, and my mom passed away recently," she says quietly. I take her answer at face value because I know how difficult the loss of a parent is.

"Where were you living before?"

This time she's a little quicker to answer. "We lived in shelters for a while. Then my mom got sick." She takes another bite of her dinner then continues. "I know how things work. Since I'm almost eighteen, there isn't too much the state will do for me. I would live in a home for a few months then get tossed out on the street. I figured I might as well get a jump on living, you know?"

I wonder how she's able to be so light-hearted about this. Emily's smiling which she tends to do on a regular basis. This girl - almost woman - has had some terrible circumstances, yet almost every time I see her, her smile brightens the room. I find her positive outlook on life is rubbing off on me.

"My next question was your age, but you've already answered that. When do you turn eighteen?"

"In a month," she replies. I take several minutes to think about the information she's just told me while finishing my own slice of pizza. Living in a shelter would explain her lack of inhibition. There is no such thing as privacy when you live with fifty other people. She's used to being watched.

"Hey, I went to the grocery store you work at today and filled out an application. I looked for you, but you must have been on break or something." I just nod; I don't need this complication spilling over to my work. As soon as I think it, though, I regret the thought. I can't think of Emily as a complication.

"They said they weren't hiring right now, but will let me know if something comes up. On my way home I stopped at the convenience store on Jamison. I found out they are hiring, so if the grocery doesn't work out, I could do that instead," she finishes, and then takes a fourth slice of pizza. I know my face pales, and she doesn't have a clue why. I have no idea how to tell this girl I don't even really know, occasionally uses my shower, and who I just referred to as a complication, that I don't want her to work in a convenience store because Dad was shot in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven.

We spend a quiet, comfortable evening and I can't help watching Emily for most of it. It's obvious she hasn't seen television in a while because she's mesmerized. We are watching some Cajun cooking show on public access, but to see it through her eyes, it's like we are watching the most fascinating show known to man.

"I put a little mo' wine in here, maybe a little mo' wine fo' me," the host says in a Creole southern drawl.

"Oh my gosh! Ethan, he is so funny! 'I gar-un-tee'!" she laughs as she mimics the chef, and I can't help the smile that cracks across my face. She could let the world swallow her whole with the weight of her situation, but she doesn't. Instead she carries on, seemingly carefree, laughing at the talkative old cook with the gift of gab.

"Emily?"

She glances over at me, still laughing at the TV. It's the moment I know I'm making the right decision. I take a deep breath, ready to lay things on the line.

"Hang on! He's going to tell a story about squirrel hunting! This'll be good!" Emily says with enthusiasm. While I really need to get my thoughts out, I can't deny her this moment. It's so pure, so I decide to indulge her for the final five minutes of the show.

As the Cookin' Cajun finishes, Emily focuses her attention on me.

"You wanted to talk about something?" The light and sparkle in her eyes is amazing. She looks happy and carefree instead of nervous. She seems to assume the best of every situation. Given the circumstances, you'd think she would be nervous, but instead, she acts as though we're going to talk about whether she'll make oatmeal or chocolate chips cookies next. I suddenly feel something I haven't felt in a very long time: content.

"Yeah," I begin, though I'm not sure why I'm nervous, other than the fact she may say no. She may refuse my help. She may tell me to mind my own business, that she doesn't need anyone to look after her, but I have to try.

"I want you to stay here." Her mouth drops open, but no sound comes out. "With me," I finish. I'm not sure whether her speechlessness is a result of shock or horror. I decide to play it safe with more justification. "You can't squat next door. It's not safe, it's illegal, and you don't need any hassles from the cops."