by Tracy Weber
The last five days had been predictable, if uneventful. After several late nights of discussion, Michael and I had opted to let the universe decide our fertility fate, at least for now. We’d continue to time our lovemaking to coincide with my increasingly erratic cycle and hope to hit the pregnancy jackpot. Some lucky dog has to win, right? In the meantime, we’d start applying for loans large enough to purchase a few IVF cycles using my own eggs. It was the most reasonable option available to us. Provided we could find a bank to agree, that is.
Last week’s flyers for Some Like It Hot Yoga had been the prelude to a flurry of advertising activities for its new location, including newspaper ads, radio promotions, and coupon mailings. A new sign mocked me from the storefront across the street: Yoga—Ten Classes for Ten Dollars! The Help Wanted sign below it mocked me more. At the rate my luck was going, I’d need to score a second job working for them.
But those were worries for another day. As I turned the corner to Third Avenue, I vowed to push all thoughts of fertility treatments, unwanted periods, competing yoga studios, and loan applications firmly to the back of my mind. Dad’s voice echoed through my subconscious: Good luck with that.
Thanks a lot, Dad.
I stopped in front of a two-story building painted in bright, welcoming colors. Cherry red door, royal blue trim, lemon yellow exterior. The space nearly shouted, Hope lives here! The sign above the door read, Teen Path HOME. Creating a Path out of Homelessness via Outreach, Mentoring, and Education.
Sam was right. This place was special. I could practically feel positive energy emanating from the siding. The sidewalk in front of the facility was clean, in spite of the downtown location and the homeless youth loitering around it. Three male teens laughed and smoked cigarettes to the right of the doorway. A girl around fifteen huddled on the left, cuddling a red pit bull.
Only one thing darkened the area’s bright energy: two teens arguing near a late-model Mercedes that was parked in a loading zone half a block away. The tiny blonde female of the pair gestured wildly with one hand and gripped a cigarette in the other. A dark blue backpack hung from her shoulder. Her gangly male counterpart wore a stony expression. As I watched, their fight escalated.
The male snarled something I couldn’t hear and turned to leave. The girl blocked him. He yelled, “Give it a break already!” and pushed past her. She grabbed his arm, and he snapped. He placed his palms on her shoulders and shoved. Hard. She stumbled back several steps, tripped over the curb, and crashed to the pavement. Both her cigarette and her backpack fell to the sidewalk beside her.
I reacted instinctively, like Bella protecting her kitten. “Hey!” I yelled. “Knock it off! Leave her alone.”
The young man whipped toward my voice. He growled something to his female companion, then ran. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the exchange didn’t look friendly. The girl curled into a ball and buried her face in her hands.
I jogged down the sidewalk and crouched beside her. “You okay?”
She slowly unfurled, shrugged her pack onto her shoulder, and stood. “Yes.” The tears wetting her cheeks disagreed, but I didn’t contradict her. My new friend was around fifteen or sixteen, impossibly thin, and several inches taller than me. The freckles across her nose stood in dark contrast to ivory skin. Her eyes never fully met mine, but they still made an impact. Arresting, gray-blue irises underscored by purple-black crescents.
I smiled and tried to appear nonthreatening. “I’m Kate. Why don’t you come inside with me? Maybe I can buy you a cup of coffee.”
“No, I … I need to go after … ” She gazed down Third Avenue, but her companion had already disappeared. “That was my boyfriend, Jace. He’s not usually … It was just an argument.” Her lips trembled. “I have to go now. Thank you.” She ran down the street after him.
I stared at her retreating shape, willing myself not to follow. Whatever was going on between the two was none of my business.
My mother’s voice gently chastised me. Are you sure? She might be in trouble.
I glanced at my watch, then stared after the blonde. My meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago. Subconscious rebukes notwithstanding, I had no time to chase after strangers. I reluctantly left the loading zone and entered the building.
The entrance opened to a lobby containing a pool table, several video games, and three comfortable-looking couches filled with teenagers slouched over cell phones. The faint aroma of cigarette smoke permeated the air, but the institutional-beige carpet was clean and the walls were decorated with inspirational posters. I glanced around for a reception desk and didn’t see one, so I approached a group of teens at the pool table.
“I’m looking for Gabriel Cousins. He’s the site director here. Any idea where I can find him?”
A friendly looking teen gestured with his thumb toward a hallway. “First office on the right. I’m pretty sure he’s with someone, though. You might want to give them a few.”
Since I was now almost ten minutes late, I strongly suspected that “someone” was supposed to be me. I followed his directions to a closed door with a nameplate that read, Gabriel Cousins, Youth Counselor and Site Director. I raised my hand to knock, but an angry female voice stopped me. Solid wood muffled the sounds coming from inside the office, but I could clearly make out a heated exchange.
“You can’t keep doing this! I swear to god, Gabriel, if you let me down one more time, I’ll—”
A male voice interrupted. “You’ll what? Show up at my workplace and embarrass me? Newsflash. You already did that.”
Ten minutes late or not, now clearly wasn’t the time to interrupt. I moved away from the door and positioned myself close enough that I could see when it opened but far away enough that I wouldn’t be tempted to eavesdrop. I killed time by examining a display of unframed drawings mounted along the hallway. I assumed they’d been created by Teen Path HOME’s clients. The art varied in subject matter and talent, but each work evoked at least one deep emotion. Desperation. Rage. Longing. Surprising optimism. Directly in front of me, a young man’s face was locked in an agonized scream. The title? Self Portrait.
I continued wandering the hall, studying each work and allowing myself to experience its impact. To my left, a young girl stared into a makeup mirror. A teenage skeleton stared back. The drawing next to it was split into halves. The right half was a remarkably lifelike depiction of a child’s bedroom, complete with a love-worn teddy bear, princess bedspread, and a light-filled window accented by baby blue curtains. The window overlooked a vibrant rainbow arched across a bright blue sky. The left half was a horror movie image of the same room. Tattered curtains, beheaded teddy bear, bloodstained bedspread, black clouds obscuring a charcoal sky. A blonde teenager with arresting gray-blue eyes stood, trapped, on the horror movie side. The resemblance was unmistakable. It was the young woman I’d spoken with outside.
The teen in the drawing placed her palm against an invisible force field, wanting to cross between worlds but unable to do so. The placard beneath the drawing read, Another Life. The artist had signed it Rainbow.
The door to Gabriel’s office slammed open, and I jumped. A striking woman with caramel skin, straight dark hair, and deep brown eyes stormed through it. She gave a brief glance my direction, then charged through the lobby and crashed out onto the sidewalk. An African-American man emerged from the office and stared silently after her. Gabriel Cousins, I presumed. He was attractive, likely mid-to-late thirties. Not a strand of hair marred anything above his collarbones, including his scalp.
I cleared my throat to let him know I was present.
He jumped as if startled, then turned toward me. His eyes flashed with frustration, then softened. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were standing there. You must be my ten o’clock.”
“Yes.” I approached him and held out my hand. “Kate Davidson. I’m here to talk about the yoga classes.”
I smiled. “No worries on that score. I adore my husband, but we fight like cats. And the waiting’s no trouble, either. I was running late myself, and I’ve been enjoying the drawings.” I turned toward Another Life, drawn like iron toward a magnet. “This one with two rooms is amazing.”
Gabriel joined me. “She’s talented, isn’t she?”
“She’s incredible.” I pointed at the girl in the drawing. “Is that the artist?”
“Yes. She includes herself in a lot of her work. I suspect she’s re-creating scenes from her life, but that’s an assumption. She hasn’t said either way.”
“You don’t ask her?”
He shrugged. “When she’s ready to open up, she will.”
“I think I met her outside. I’m a little worried about her, actually. She was arguing with another teenager. A skinny guy with dark hair.”
Gabriel’s face turned to granite. “That would be Jace.” He opened his mouth as if about to say something, then closed it again, frowned, and changed the subject. “All of this artwork is impressive, but Another Life is especially powerful. I’m trying to talk Rainbow into letting us use it in our next fund drive.”
“Sam didn’t tell me that the youth here were artists.”
“They’re not, for the most part. These drawings are part of our new art therapy program. For most of our clients, talk therapy—if they’re willing to talk—doesn’t do much. But get their hands busy with some pastels, and … ” He pointed to a dark, somehow vulnerable rendering of female genitalia. The sign underneath it read, My Worth. It was signed Echo. “I mean, look at that. What more needs to be said?” He shrugged.
“The artist can’t believe that,” I said.
Gabriel shook his head. “Unfortunately, she does. Believe me, she has her reasons. I’ve been trying to help her, but without much success. As long as she believes she’s only worth what she can give sexually, she’ll be hard to reach.” His jaw hardened. “She’s not alone. A lot of our clients have been abused—in more ways than one. Kids like Echo survive by being sex workers. I try to have compassion for all people, but adults who abuse kids … They deserve a special place in hell.”
I shuddered, for multiple reasons. “The artist who drew this is a kid?”
“Chronologically, I suspect she’s around nineteen or twenty. Emotionally, she’s a lot younger. That’s true for most of our clients. We serve ages twelve to twenty-one, but the youth who come here are more like adolescents than adults. We all tend to call them kids regardless of how old they are.
He turned back to Another Life. “We’ve had talented people come through here before, but Rainbow may be the best.”
I pointed at the signature. “Is Rainbow her real name?”
He shrugged. “It’s what she goes by, anyway. I assume it’s a street name. Like I said, she’s been coming here for a couple of months, but I don’t know much about her. She hasn’t opened up to anybody.”
“Is that common?”
“It’s not uncommon. Our clients don’t trust adults easily. Most didn’t exactly grow up with the Cleavers. Almost three-quarters of them have been physically or sexually abused. I tell my staff that learning our clients’ stories is a privilege that’s earned with time, if ever.”
“That must make counseling them tricky.”
“Definitely. That’s one of the reasons I’m so interested in offering yoga here. I’ve read that movement practices like yoga can help people process emotions physically. It might be a way to help our kids heal from trauma without forcing them to talk about it.” He gestured toward the lobby. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me give you a tour of the facility, and then we can talk.”
Gabriel led me from the office area to the room with the pool table. His vocal tone changed, as if he were launching into a speech he’d recited many times before. “We’re open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. seven days a week. We provide hot lunches Mondays through Fridays and offer educational programs as often as we can.” He high-fived one of the kids lounging on a couch. “This is our recreation area, where the kids can relax, shoot some pool, and stay out of the rain. Pretty much all of our clients take advantage of the meals and the recreation area, but less than half participate in our training and counseling programs. We’re hoping Sam’s technology program will drive that number higher.”
Next up was a large conference room. Gabriel tapped on the door, then opened it. The room held a half-dozen tables, at least ten times that many folding chairs, and an ancient-looking projector. Fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed in the ceiling.
“This is our main teaching space. It’s where you’ll be holding your yoga sessions. Three mornings a week we offer GED classes here. We also use it for staff and other ad hoc meetings.” He gestured toward a metal chair rack next to the wall. “The room’s pretty big, but we’ll have to move tables and stack most of the chairs to make enough floor space for yoga. I hope it will work.”
“It’ll be fine.” I was already strategizing how to make the space feel more inviting. To be honest, the room was about as inviting as the hospital rooms I taught in. But I could bring in soft music, maybe a bouquet of fresh flowers. The windows were too small to let in much natural light, so we’d have to keep the overhead lights on. But maybe I could invest in a few strands of Christmas lights. Yoga wasn’t about where you practiced, anyway. It was about how you centered your mind.
Our next stop was a large industrial kitchen, which was next to the office area. A man wearing wire-rimmed glasses, a white apron, and a serious expression was showing a mustached young man how to dice vegetables. He looked up at us, gave a slight nod, and went back to his tasks.
“This is our chef, Chuck Brown.”
The mustached youth elbowed the chef and smiled. “But you can call him Charlie, like the cartoon.”
The chef gave him a droll look. “Keep chopping, smart guy.” He wiped his hands on the apron and approached me. “No one calls me Charlie, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but then I’d need to wash up again. Part of what I’m teaching this joker is safe food preparation. Are you one of our donors?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m going to start teaching yoga classes here.”
He didn’t reply, but his jaw tensed.
Gabriel continued. “Chuck manages the hot lunch program I told you about and teaches classes on nutrition and safe cooking techniques. He also mentors our more dedicated clients on commercial food preparation.” He elbowed the mustached teen. “This comedian is one of them. We hope to eventually raise enough funds to open a licensed cooking school. Then we can certify students, which should make it easier for them to get jobs in the restaurant industry.”
“That’s impressive,” I said.
“Not nearly as impressive as what Sam is doing,” Gabriel replied.
Chuck gripped his apron so hard his knuckles turned white. When he spoke, his words sounded clipped. “Are you done, Gabriel? We need to get back to work.”
If Gabriel noticed Chuck’s irritation, he didn’t show it. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
I paused before closing the kitchen door behind me. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
Neither Chuck nor his young friend replied.
Gabriel led me up a stairway to the second floor landing. We turned right and entered a dedicated art room filled with easels, paint-stained tables, and a row of colorfully painted cloths drying on a wire rack. A forty-something woman with graying dark hair walked around the room, occasionally encouraging the three young adults seated at a table in the corner.
Gabriel introduce
d her as Vonnie Carlson. “Vonnie is the inspiration behind all those drawings you saw in the office hallway.” His hand moved to her shoulder, where it lingered a few seconds longer than I would have expected between coworkers.
She smiled. “Gabriel’s being generous. I give the kids a few pointers, that’s all. The inspiration comes from inside them.” She nudged him playfully. “When are you going to talk the board into letting me host an art show?”
Gabriel grinned. “One step at a time, my dear. One step at a time.”
An anemic-looking young woman with curly brown hair stood and carried a wet cloth to the drying rack. Swirls of blue, purple, yellow, and orange floated among pink and red hearts.
“That’s gorgeous!” I said.
“We’re using them to decorate solar lanterns,” Vonnie replied. She pointed to a row of cylindrical metal frames, each containing an LED light and topped with a solar panel. “Each student makes two: one for themselves and one for a friend. Everyone deserves a little beauty and light.” She nodded at the young artist, who had returned to her chair without acknowledging my compliment. “Isn’t that right, Echo?”
Echo. The young woman who’d created the drawing titled My Worth. The one Gabriel had implied was a sex worker.
“Your lantern will be beautiful, Echo,” I said.
She didn’t look up, but her cheeks flushed at the compliment. A puffy, bright pink coat mended with green, blue, black, and orange duct tape was draped over the back of her chair. A homeless youth’s version of Joseph’s coat of many colors.
Gabriel smiled and spoke to the room. “You’re all doing great work here.” He touched my arm. “Come on, Kate. One last stop: the computer lab.”