I saw her out of the corner of my eye, the dirty string backpack caught my attention. I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned around slowly and carefully. Her ragged, mustard colored shirt was stained, and I realized her slender frame was drapped in old, ripped men’s clothing.
Her skin was beautiful, tight, clear. Her hair rose into a bushy mess and was littered with tiny peices of trash. But it was her eyes that startled me most. They were large, intensely brown and watered as if she was on the verge of tears. They held the fear of a thousand prisoners, and they scoped my face with the uneasy trepidation of a deer staring at a hunter.
I smiled and gently asked her if she was in need of help, I couldn’t give this frightened child my typical talk, there was something different about her. Yes, she said, I would like help and the other volunteer started digging out food bags and hygeine products. I asked her how old she was. “20. I lived in fostercare my whole life and at 18…well, I’ve been out here on the streets ever since.” She did not need to explain further, the foster system is as basic as that. At 18, they free the dog from the cage. As I started to explain more about who we are and how we can help, a slow smile crept across her face, though her eyes never lost their terrified expression. I asked her what we could help her with, and she said she wanted to go to college. She has her high school diploma, and wants to go to college very badly. “Well, my name is Carleigh, it’s nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand. “My name is Happy. It’s nice to meet you to.” Her fingers slipped into mine.
We set up an appointment for this week; I am meeting her on Wednesday. She is the reason I do outreach.
