The Third Time

I am sitting on the sofa that is covered in fake Indian cashmere. I peer out the window behind me. Droplets of rain slowly slide down the glass in front of my face. They look like tears. I look at my arm, and the rain reflects onto it. My arm is crying. So are my clothes. My face.

Outside, I see a boy standing behind a lemonade stand. The rain sticks hair to his white forehead and makes his already large suit droop even more over his gawky body. Why sell lemonade in the rain? I want to tell him to come inside.

"Kaiya, would you like some breakfast, dear?"

That is Marge. She is one of the kooks I live with. She is tall and thin with grey, frizzy hair. She clearly doesn't recall seeing me sitting in front of her but 20 minutes ago slurping the milk from my cereal bowl. I don't respond.

"Oh, Amber, she still won't talk to me," I hear her "discreetly" whisper to my second guardian. Amber is plump, but rosy. She has straight, grey hair and really yellow feet. "Do you think she speaks English at all?" asks Marge.

"Yes. The agency wouldn't lie. She's just not comfortable yet. It's only been a week. Give her time," says Amber. I guess you could say she's the smart one. "Alright, Kaiya, we're going to work. We'll be back at seven. Be good, darling, and don't you think of leaving the apartment." She kisses me on the forehead and leaves with Marge.

Finally.

As the coast clears, I put on my rain coat and some of Marge's old galoshes. I carefully plop down the apartment's stairs. This is my third time outside. I've counted.

As I head out towards the grey street, I see the lemonade boy. His bright yellow stand illuminates the corner he stands on. He has a litle umbrella over the little, plastic cups of lemonade. I walk towards his stand.

"How much?" I ask.
"Ten cents," he replies. I don't have any money.
"Okay, I'll be right back," I lie.

I turn around quickly and run back to apartment 208. I enter my new home once again. Scared. Who knew the lemonade boy would be so beautiful?

Introductions

My name is Kaiya Himura. I'm eleven years old. The city where I live doesn't have a name. I might as well not have one either. I am nothing. Just a waisted pile of cells and blood. That's what this place is. No one cares about this town; it's the dirt under the ladies' Sally Hansen nails and the crunchy beetles crawling nightly throughout the high walls of their elegantly angelic ceilings. I am a beetle. I am dirt. I am an orphan.

Currently, I live with two old ladies. They might be sisters- I don't know. They are two psuedo-gypsies playing fake with tarot cards and afternoon bellydancing. They took me in at the age of six. We live in apartment 208.

You may be wondering why my name may sound so -you know- cultural. My father was Japanese and my mother was Costa Rican. They named me after my father's aunt or cousin. When I was born (in the unlucky slums of Japan), my parents did not want me. They put me up for sale- like you would a boat or a pet cat. To my surprise a young Englishwoman Mrs. James and her husband felt pity upon me and "purchased" me. They had been touring Japan for some reason,;they discovered me, and then they took me to their lovely little English house. Mrs. James taught me to speak English immediately. Dont know how she did it.

What happened between then and now is unclear to me...somehow. One way or another, I ended up in this junky city living with some freaks.