One Way Avenue

I'm not really the type to run away, exactly. Not like I'm leaving anything behind - there's not much I've got to lose, really. What's the fucking point of trying anymore? My mom's a prostitute, dad's in solitary confinement since he turned psychopathic from all of his precious drugs, and my so-called 'home' is the basement of a back-alley bar. Sure, I tried to get perfect test scores at school; I tried to get the highest GPA; I tried to escape! But everything just keeps pushing me back down. I'm never good enough. Dartmouth won't accept me unless I've got money, money, money! and an actual living residency. Like I said, what's the point of fucking trying?

I was walking toward a sign that said 'One Way' - I guess I was going the 'wrong way' since all of the cars were headed towards me on the street, but oh well. I saw this girl almost a hundred yards ahead of me. She looked tall and blonde with dark eyes. She seemed strangely familiar. She wore a black leather jacket, plaid skirt, and expensive stiletto boots; she was extremely disoriented and hung-over.

I was about a foot away from her. I sort of gawked as I looked into her face; it was weird. She had the same fixed gaze on my eyes.

"Weird," we both stated in unison; I stopped dead and shook my head.

"Whoa," I rubbed any dust out of my eyes, "sorry . . . you looked like . . ."

". . . totally familiar, man," she finished for me.

I sighed and sat down on the bus stop bench, "Yeah," it was way too early in the morning to be having some bizarre kind of deja vu; I stretched my arms and yawned, "sorry. It's real early and I couldn't sleep all night. It's kind of hard with all the bar fights upstairs . . ."

"Ha!" she had a deafening laugh; the lady working in the cafe behind us peered her head outside to see what made the loud noise. The drunken girl rolled her eyes, "I guess that makes us both insomniacs," she tried to sit down on the bench, but missed by an inch and fell on her butt, "Oww!"

I went over to help her up. She smirked at me appreciatively, "Thank you Miss Bench-Lady," it was her turn to yawn and stretch, "So, what's your name? I'm Lizzy - Lizzy Price."

I smiled; she seemed quite friendly despite her physical state, "Nice to meet you, Lizzy. My name is Selena Workman."

She nodded her head; she quickly turned her head to look at me, "I'm suddenly hungry . . . you wanna grab a bagel?"

I was bone broke and of course, I figured she would be, too, but then I saw she pulled this wallet full of cash from out of her purse.

She handed me a five dollar bill, "Don't worry. It's on me, today." Hiccup.

I accepted the five dollar bill - I felt bad for taking it, but I really was hungry. And she seemed like a nice girl - even if she practically was a polar opposite of me! I wouldn't mind eating breakfast with her. I had a feeling she could help me with my problems . . . maybe I could help her with her problems, as well. Maybe.