DaySleeper

Josiah is intent on drawing a picture of him and me. Alice is jealous. She just sits with Avid in the corner, arms crossed, while I help Jo pick out colors.

“Maybe,” I whisper, “You should add in Alice? And Avid? You could do a picture of everyone.”

He smiles, and I pull a crayon out of his mouth.

“I’ll do that later,” he says, taking the crayon back and coloring my hair orange. I don’t point out the difference between black and orange. He knows.

“Okay,” I agree, and hand him a blue for our pants. He colors his hair blue instead. I don’t say anything still.

Someone sits down on my back. It’s obviously a child, if the weight and giggles are anything to go by. I look over my shoulder and smile at the little girl Josiah plays with most, other than me. I think her name is Destiny, but we all just call her Dee.

“Hey, babe,” I say, looking back to the paper. She giggles some more.

“Cadence, I want to color too!” she whines.

“Come on, then,” I say. She doesn’t move. I look over my shoulder just as Josiah stands and sits himself down on my shoulders. “Guys,” I whine. Josiah is entertained by this.

“Pile!” Alice screams. I glare at her as more children sit on me.

“This isn’t fun for me,” I complain. Alice comes over and picks up Josiah, taking his place and pulling him onto her lap. “Ow,” I whine.

“Man up, boy!” Alice laughs.

“How many people are on me?!” I demand. Avid laughs.

“Only… 10,” he says. I groan.

“I can’t breathe,” I mutter.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Alice says, “I am light as a feather. My delicate body weighs practically nothing!”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” I mumble.

“Lunch time!” Mike calls. The children all roll off of me painfully. Alice remains perched on my back for a few more moments.

“Can’t—breathe,” I complain. She rolls off of me and helps me up.

“Time to eat,” she says, holding my hand and pulling me to the dining hall. Avid seems to have disappeared already. I am guessing he’s getting lunch, macaroni and cheese with apple sauce, served to the kids. We have to carry plates to them. The messes they make are heart wrenching, so we avoid them. At all costs. Alice and I join the effort to feed the kids. We finish quickly.

I sit down with Alice, not even bothering to waste food, and sit quietly as she eats.

“Alice?” I question.

“Mhmm?” she mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“What are you doing to get out of here? What will you do after?” I ask.

She swallows, and seems to think about this.

“I am thinking of staying here for a few more months,” she says, “Maybe until July, if they let me. This shelter is the most relaxed on people staying. I tried three that wouldn’t even accept a single woman without kids, much less a man.”

I bite my lip and nod. I know it’s not normal here. I am glad I am here though.

“After that?” she asks. I nod again. “I don’t know. You know, I’ve never felt at home anywhere. Not even with my mom when I was little. I was such an obstacle to her, something to work around. She hates me.”

I sigh. I know how she feels.

“I feel at home here,” she admits, “Like, people here love me. And I honestly want to give my life to them. This is home. This is family.”

“So, what will you do?” I ask.

“I’ll probably see if they could keep me on as a fulltime volunteer. This makes me happy.”

“Forever?” I ask her. She seems to think about this.

“I’ll probably get a job soon. Save up some money, go to night school while I work here. I could study anything, really.” She continues.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” I admit.

“They’ll let you stay on too. I mean, we’re both practically volunteers anyways. The only reason they don’t send us off every morning to work or go to school is because we watch the kids. They need our help, we need theirs,” she says, and her wrist relaxes, her fork dangling while she thinks, “I think all shelters should be like this. Life is about giving at taking.”

“I don’t know if I want to stay,” I admit.

“Do you like it here?” she asks. I wonder.

“Yeah,” I whisper, “I guess I am just kind of scared that it’ll… that it will not be the same forever.”

“Well, I am sure it will not be the same, exactly, but I’ve been in and out of this place for a year in April, and it never changes too much. Sometimes that’s a good thing, and sometimes it’s a bad thing,” she observes. I nod. “Anyways,” she says, “It’s not like they’ll be making you leave anytime soon. You have time to think.”

“Why?” I question. She looks at me.

“You’re too depressed to send out,” she says bluntly.

“I am not depressed,” I object.

“We live in the same room,” she says, “I am pretty sure I can tell that you’re either depressed or a party pooper. We all are when we come here.”

“I am not,” I mutter. She raises her eyebrows and stands to throw away her plate. Avid sits down in her seat and pauses, fork in mid-air.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks.

“I dunno,” I reply.