Bianca's Journey: A Novel

By Norma Knowles-Bastien

Biancas Journey is a mainstream fiction with lots of unexpected adventures, steamy romances, sizzling love scenes, plenty of juicy dialogue, and the occasional explicit sexual content.

This novel spans the period 1990-1996. Story begins when Bianca, 18, escapes to Los Angeles from a small Chicago town with nothing but a change of clothing and an out-dated writing accouterment: An Olivetti typewriter. Same day of her arrival she clashes with a 14-year-old runaway in MacArthur Park. Brief flashbacks immediately reveal why both girls needed distance from their respective parents. Bianca doesnt know that the runaway, Carli, had been raped two days prior.

Right from the start she is faced with the daunting task of adopting this gawky, obnoxious kid. And thus Biancas Journey begins

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465362735

Norma Knowles-Bastien

Norma Knowles-Bastien was first published as a teenager in the Daily Chronicle newspaper. She continued to write but chose teaching as her profession. Among Bastiens published works are: a children's rhyming storybook, a job search guidebook, and two weekly newspaper columns. She has completed advanced novel and screenwriting programs in her efforts to hone her skills as a writer. Biancas Journey is this authors first novel which was originally written as a screenplay and registered/WGA/1990 with the working title Jacuzzi Nights. Bastien won an Opus Magnum Award from CCS in Beverly Hills for this project, and a synopsis of her script was featured in Premiere Magazine. Bastien is much traveled, has lived in London and New York, and presently resides in Azusa, California. She has a daughter and two granddaughters under 8.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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Los Angeles, Early Evening,

Sunday, July 1, 1990

Bianca was very focused as she scribbled rapidly in her notebook. Suddenly, she became aware of someone else sitting beside her on the park bench. She turned and looked at the face of a girl—few years younger than she—big heavily-lined brown eyes with layers of mascara burned into hers with fierce hostility. Bianca instinctively inched away to the farther side of the bench.

So, the girl croaked, when you gonna leave? Her voice sounded much too mature for her face.

Excuse me? Bianca responded.

You heard me. When ya gonna go home to your precious mommy and daddy, dork?

Bianca couldn’t take her eyes off the girl. She finally said, I…I hadn’t planned on leaving just yet. What’s it to you, anyway?

The girl was quite dirty and the stench of her sweaty body assaulted Bianca’s nostrils from the three feet between them. One side of her hair was cropped and dyed bright red, and the other side was a lifeless brown stiff with grime and styling gel. She was wearing an old leather jacket which was several sizes too large for her tall, skinny frame. The jacket was buttoned to the top even though it was very hot—at least eighty degrees. There seemed to be some sort of a flimsy dress underneath, and she was wearing safari boots without socks.

What the hell you staring at, Blondie?

Bianca jumped at the question. Not…nothing…are you a…are you a runaway?

None of your freaking business! The girl pulled a bent cigarette out of her jacket and lit it up with a pink lighter.

Bianca was beginning to feel sorry for this seemingly young homeless girl. My name is Bianca. What’s your name? she asked gently, as she fanned the smoke away.

The girl ignored her friendly gesture. Listen, I asked you when you gonna leave. This bench is my bed for the night, so take a hike!

Disregarding the nasty remark, Bianca continued to probe. "So, you are a runaway. Why do you want this particular bench, anyway? You can sleep on that one over there."

The girl puffed furiously on the crooked cigarette as if she didn’t hear Bianca’s question. I said, get lost! she screeched.

Undaunted, Bianca inched closer. Look, if we’re going to talk to each other, you have to tell me your name.

Who says we’re talkin? She tossed the lit cigarette carelessly on the grass. I just want you to go away.

She got up and stood over Bianca threateningly. Bianca stood up quickly, dropping the paper sack she was holding. A bright red apple rolled out onto the grass along with a can of Pepsi. Both girls bent over to reach for the items at the same time—butting heads.

Ouch! Bianca exclaimed rubbing her forehead.

The girl was very quick as she snatched the apple and the Pepsi.

Give those back, you little thief! They’re mine! Bianca hissed.

The girl bit into the apple hungrily. Not anymore, she said gleefully, apple juice dribbling down her dirty chin.

Bianca just stood there staring in amazement; not knowing whether to smack her or feel sorry for her. The taste of the apple seemed to mellow the girl out a bit. She sat down again with just a hint of a smile.

Who are you, and what makes you so mean? Bianca finally asked her.

Hey, I ain’t mean, but since I took your food…my name is Carli, and yeah, I did run away couple days ago. There, ya happy now?

Bianca sat down next to her offering her hand. Hi, Carli, look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot but that was the last of my food supply.

I was very hungry, Carli said as a means of apologizing, then she burped noisily.

No kidding! Bianca responded. They both laughed and the ice seemed to be broken between the two girls.

Carli held the can out to Bianca and said, Here, you can have your Pepsi back. I’ll drink at the fountain.

Thanks. Bianca wiped off the top of the can and drank the rest of the soda as Carli continued to devour the apple.

Are you running away, too?

No, Bianca responded indignantly, I graduated a few weeks ago and I just decided to leave. I’m not a kid—I’m 18. Why did you run away from home, Carli?

What home? I ran away from a shitty trailer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. What you say your name was?

Bianca.

I’m gonna go get some water, Bianca. You want me to fill the Pepsi can for you?

No, it’s okay, Carli. Here, why don’t you use it to fill water for yourself? I have a plastic bottle. She began to dig in her backpack and produced a half-filled bottle of water. So, did you sleep on this bench last night?

Carli nodded. Yeah, it’s the only one that’s hidden away like this behind bushes. I don’t want no cop taking me back to that hellhole in Barstow.

Barstow? That sounds familiar. I think the greyhound bus I came here in stopped there for gas—on Main Street?

Yeah, I know where that it. All the greyhound and tour buses stop there. My friend Dylan and me used to hang out there and hustle the tourists going to Las Vegas when they stop for souvenirs and snacks. Carli was smiling as she reminisced and for the first time Bianca noticed how pretty she really was.

How old are you, Carli?

There you go with the questions again. Look, we better be deciding who get the bench. It’s getting dark already. Carli was suddenly becoming hostile again.

Sorry. It’s just that you seem—well, your voice and attitude sound like…seventeen-eighteen, but in spite of the heavy makeup, I think you’re…more like fourteen?

I’ll be fifteen in a couple of days, Carli snapped.

I thought so! Hey, you were almost born on the fourth of July, Independence Day.

Yeah, big whoop!

Gosh, Carli, you shouldn’t have run away. You’re much too young to be out in the streets like this. You could get hurt…

Shuddup! Carli interrupted. Just shuddup about me getting hurt, I can’t get hurt worse than I did living with…look, I can take care of myself!

Okay, okay, calm down, Carli, I didn’t mean to upset you.

You didn’t upset me! If you ask me, you’re the one that’s gonna get hurt. You’re so stupid and trusting, I could shove a knife in your gut right now and you wouldn’t even see it coming. Carli quickly reached into her jacket and pulled out a switchblade, flicking it open.

Bianca backed away to the far side of the bench, genuinely scared.

Carli laughed out loud. See, Bianca? You’re such a wimp. You’re afraid of your own shadow. She continued to taunt and laugh at Bianca’s startled reaction.

Gosh, Carli, where did you get that evil-looking knife? Put it away, please!

The laughter quickly vanished from her voice as she yelled, None of your freaking business where I got this knife!

Bianca was quite puzzled at Carli’s erratic behavior and she was becoming very annoyed at her. You can have the stinking bench, Carli. I’m going to check into a motel. She got up and began walking away as fast as she could.

She noticed three teenage boys loitering in the area and as she walked by, they whistled and made vulgar noises at her. She furtively glanced their way. They were of Spanish descent, wearing white T-shirts and jeans. One of them grabbed his crotch and made an obscene gesture to her. She quickened her pace and was almost out of the park when she suddenly found herself turning back. She began to run towards the bench where she had left Carli. She’s only a kid. I can’t leave her there all alone—no matter how annoying she is.

Carli was laying face up—eyes closed. She sat up quickly as Bianca stood over her. You forgot something Miss Bigshot-I’m-going-to-a-motel? she mimicked.

Just shut up and come with me, Carli! Bianca ordered, panting and out of breath from running.

Who are you, the cops? I ain’t goin’ no place with you. Now, beat it! I gotta get some sleep.

Carli, please, there are some mean-looking guys hanging around. I can’t leave you here—even though I should, you filthy little pain-in-the-ass!

Hey, nobody ask you to but in, and don’t go calling me names unless you’re looking to get your face rearranged.

Carli, for the last time, please come with me. You can stay in the motel room with me tonight.

You sure are dumb, Bianca. Nobody’s gonna rent us a motel room. They’ll think we’re teenage hookers and call the cops.

Bianca was calmer now. Don’t be silly, we don’t look like hookers…least I don’t. Look, will you just come with me? We’ll play it by ear. You can’t stay here alone. It’s too dangerous.

Carli lay back down on the bench, folded here arms over her chest and closed her eyes as if to go to sleep. It’s no more dangerous here than it is in any fleabag motel you can afford. I’m staying.

Okay, fine! Bianca huffed and walked off.

Fine! Carli yelled after her.

PART I

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CHAPTER

ONE

Los Angeles, July 1, 1990—Early Afternoon

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The temperature gage at the corner bank read one hundred degrees Fahrenheit as the relentless heat burned into her fair skin. But she was unaware of the pain. To Bianca Davenport, it was a perfect day. A perfect day to start her new life. A perfect day to be free. A perfect day to be far, far away from her tormentors in Chicago—her parents—Beatrice and Ralph.

She looked up at the brilliant California sun shining down on majestic palm trees which lined the boulevard—like soldiers guarding their territory. A gentle breeze orchestrated rhythmical waving of the spiral branches. So beautiful…so very beautiful, she whispered in awe.

She was eighteen and a high school graduate with great plans for the future. She was going to find a job and work as hard as she could to pay her way through college. In spite of her neglectful parents who could hardly be considered role models, Bianca was very focused and optimistic. She knew that this city—Los Angeles—was where it was all going to happen for her, just the way she had already fantasized a thousand times before: A successful writing career, a home, a husband and children of her own.

She wanted it all.

Smiling happily, her natural blonde hair blowing in the wind, she melded into the frantic movements of the crowd on the sidewalk.

At the bus stop she picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times which she deposited in her backpack. Upon inquiring, she found out that the next bus was bound for MacArthur Park on Wilshire Boulevard. A park! This suited Bianca’s mood perfectly; she boarded quickly. Her beautiful blue eyes grew wide and alert as she gazed out the window. This is the happiest day of my whole life—I’m here! I’m in California and I’m free! Free! Free!

But Bianca had no place to stay. She had just stored her meager belongings at the Greyhound bus depot. She worried if her typewriter would be safe in the locker. It was a battered old relic, an Olivetti, but it was her most prized possession. She had purchased it from old Mrs. Johnson for ten dollars—using money she made running errands for elderly folks in the apartment building. Bianca was twelve years old at the time and since that day she had been using this antiquated accouterment to do her writing. She practiced every chance she got—clacking away at the keys for hours on end. She could still hear her father’s disagreeable reaction to the noises the heavy old keys made.

I’m going to toss that noisy piece of crap out the fucking window! he had yelled, Beatrice, why do you let her spend good money on crappy junk like this?

What the hell you want me to do, Ralph? She paid for it with her own money, her mother had responded.

Ralph had then picked up the machine and attempted to toss it when Beatrice said, Put the fucking typewriter down, Ralph! We could always sell the damn thing if she doesn’t stop the noise. I’m sure it’s good for a couple of six packs.

After that incident, a determined Bianca would hide in the closet whenever she needed to hunt and peck out her short stories and poems.

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As she strolled around the beautiful park, a contented smile replaced the frown which had been evoked by the unpleasant memories. I never have to worry or be afraid of those two ever again, she thought, heaving a huge sigh of relief.

Like most teenagers, Bianca was carrying a backpack. But unlike most girls her age, it wasn’t filled with trendy jewelry, makeup, and hairstyling gels. Instead, she had carefully filed all of her short stories—which she considered to be treatments for movie scripts—in a two-inch binder and placed it in her backpack. This, plus her old Syd Field textbook on how to write screenplays, a couple of composition notebooks, an apple, a bottle of water, and a can of Pepsi made her backpack difficult to carry around.

She decided to stop and rest for a while. She thought she could check out the want ads—maybe do some writing as well.

She made herself comfortable on a park bench and surveyed her surroundings with interest. It was a magical combination: glorious sunshine, birds in trees and on the grass pecking for food, lively music blasting from a nearby boombox, and children at play enjoying summer vacation.

Bianca felt just a little bit envious of the carefree demeanor of the young girls her age as they walked by holding hands with their boyfriends—occasionally stopping to share a lingering kiss.

She had spent most of her young life alone in the apartment, reading books from the school library. Aside from Cleo Jones, the African-American woman who lived in the same building, she had no one else with whom to converse.

When she was six years old, Cleo had daringly intervened and rescued her from a brutal beating. Bianca had gotten violently ill from eating a putrid hotdog. Earlier that day, she had complained about being hungry. This angered Ralph since he was napping in front of the TV. He ordered her to wash the slime off the Weiner, eat it, and quit bothering him. Later, when she vomited on the floor next to him, he held both her hands together and he began to slap her around with his free hand.

Cleo had heard the screaming and commotion and entered the apartment. She had to kick Ralph in the groin to get the little girl away from him. She took Bianca up to her apartment in spite of Ralph’s fowl language and threats to call the cops on her. Cleo had then given Bianca a bath, fed her soup, and rocked her to sleep.

After that day, Bianca would escape up the stairs to Cleo’s apartment whenever things became unbearable. Cleo never turned her away. She became Bianca’s only childhood friend even though she was in her forties.

Cleo had been a stage dancer/singer before she injured her hip and fallen on hard times. She and Bianca would spend hours listening to her old records, singing along to the music—sometimes dancing and performing to the tunes.

When she was older Bianca spent most of her evenings (after cleaning, cooking and washing dinner dishes) watching movies on TV until the early morning hours. Ralph and Beatrice cared little about whether she was up late on school nights or if he did her homework. They stayed out most nights in the neighborhood bars and taverns drinking with their friends.

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Looking for a job, young lady? A strong, but gentle voice startled Bianca, interrupting her thoughts.

She turned her head quickly to find out that the voice belonged to a well-dressed gentleman who was now sitting next to her on the park bench. Bianca wanted to get up and walk away, but for some strange reason she seemed unable to move. She decided to ignore the man as she continued to look through the classifieds.

But he persisted. You’re very pretty. What’s your name? No need to be afraid of me, I’m quite harmless…are you new in town?

Scared and lost as she felt being in a strange new city, she was desperate to respond to the friendly voice. He really sounds like a nice guy. Maybe I should talk to him. But she was too apprehensive. Bianca never had gone out on a date alone because she just didn’t trust anyone of the opposite sex. She was an early developer and when she was twelve her father’s perverted friends began to lecherously chase her around and fondle her.

When she complained of these advances to Ralph he only laughed and said, What do you expect from the poor bastards? You don’t look like no twelve-year-old. You’re developing too fast, girl.

After that revelation, Bianca had taken to wearing clothing that carefully hid her blossoming figure.

She glanced at the stranger out of the corner of her eye from behind her newspaper. He was very handsome she observed, dark hair, clean-shaven, nice hands, and she could smell the spicy fragrance of his cologne. She liked it. Near as she could figure he was in his mid or late thirties. He caught her looking and smiled, Will you at least tell me your name?

Bianca pretended not to hear and hid behind the classifieds once again. Finally, the man got up and walked away. She noticed that he had left a business card on the park bench. She quickly grabbed it and slipped it into her backpack. After circling a few more job ads, she tore off the page, folded it and stuffed it in her backpack as well.

Bianca had worked for McDonald’s back in Chicago so she wasn’t without experience. She felt certain that her high school diploma would make it easy for her to find a waitress job—at a real restaurant—with tips.

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Barstow, California—June 29, 1990

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Dammit, Sissy, why the hell don’t you send the kid over to your sister? I don’t want her here tonight.

Carli could hear Chuck, her fifth ‘stepfather’ in her fourteen years of life, yelling at her mother who was in the kitchen. She came out of her room and faced Chuck squarely. I ain’t going to Aunt Patsy’s house. Her freaky husband is always putting his hand up my skirt, she yelled.

She can’t go there tonight, Chuck. Sissy came out of the kitchen, an unashed cigarette hanging between her loose, painted lips. As always, her dirty blonde hair was piled high on top of her head, suspended by large silver bobby pins which were now glowing in the darkened room. We still owe Patsy ten bucks from the last time. You know what a bitch she is when we don’t pay to let the kid hang out at her place, she finished.

Chuck got up, went to the refrigerator to get another beer and shuffled back to the living room. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m really not in the mood to take any lip from your goddamn slut of a sister, he said, sitting down on the sagging, discolored armchair. Chuck spent most of his time in that chair; just sitting around watching TV.

He took a noisy gulp of beer, burped, set the can on the floor beside him, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his dingy T-shirt. I’m not giving her a dime, he declared.

So, who else do we know that would take the kid off our hands tonight? We can’t have her running off again and I promised the gang we could have the party here, Sissy whined.

For the hundredth time, I don’t need anyone to watch me. I told you I wasn’t going to run away again! Carli screamed.

Yeah, sure you ain’t kid, jeered Chuck.

I think she means it this time, Chuck. She’ll stay in her room.

Well, see that she does. We can’t have her hanging around. Remember what happened the last time…? Chuck was referring to the time Carli told the social worker that he had allowed her to snort cocaine during one of their wild parties.

The social worker warned them that he won’t hesitate to remove Carli from the home. This really alarmed Chuck and Sissy because they depended heavily on the food stamps and welfare checks they received because of her presence in the home. The worker was unaware that Carli was also no stranger to hard liquor and cigarettes. And she was already smoking pot which she would usually steal from Chuck’s stash.

That night, Chuck and Sissy were determined to have their drugged out biker friends over for another night of boozing, brawling, and fornicating.

Sissy sat on his Chuck’s lap jouncing to get comfortable. I know. I remember, Sugar. We don’t need her telling that social worker fag about our good times again. Those blasted County people have no fuckin’ sense of humor. They laughed and moved to the faded sofa—already covered with dried semen flaking on the green-plaid Herculon—where they began to make love.

Carli stomped out to the kitchen and sat at the table. She attempted to choke down the cold spaghetti her mother had just emptied straight from the can onto a chipped plate. She could still see them on the sofa going at it hot and heavy. She turned away, focusing on a couple of huge roaches fighting for a piece of stale bread on the faded linoleum floor.

The sounds of Chuck’s grunting and swearing and her mother’s panting out the words, ‘Oh, God, baby, oh God!’ filled the tiny trailer. Carli stared at their half-naked bodies—void of emotion—as they bounced around on the sofa in the heat of sex. Then she walked over to look out the window.

After a few minutes Sissy came up behind her, still struggling into her clothes. She grabbed Bianca by the neck of her T-shirt and pushed her over to the table. Eat up, kid, you gotta stay in your room tonight. And don’t try anything funny or you gonna have to answer to Chuck, and you know what a mean sonofabitch he is.

Carli went back to the table, sat down and picked up her fork. As Sissy left the room, she laid her fork down and looked around the filthy kitchen. Then she reached for her mother’s purse on the countertop and rummaged through it for money—recovering only loose change.

I gotta get outta here, but this wouldn’t get me very far, she whispered. Carli had already made several attempts to run away before but due to lack of cash she never got very far. She continuously pleaded for some pocket money—a meager allowance, but the answer was always a resounding ‘no!’ It wasn’t that her mother and Chuck really cared whether she stayed or not. She knew that if the food stamps and welfare checks stopped coming, they’d get rid of her in a second.

Later that night, Chuck locked Carli in her room as their friends began to show up. She covered her ears with a pillow and finally fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

She was awakened by a gruff voice whispering in her ear. She felt as though she was being crushed under a car. The strong odor of stale beer and chewing tobacco hit her nostrils the same time his hard penis jammed inside of her. She immediately recognized the combination of odors: beer, sweat and tobacco—Jesse! Chuck’s brother.

She managed a weak scream before her mouth was covered with his big, hairy hand. She bit his palm and he let go for a second. Jesse, get off of me! Carli ordered struggling as hard as she could. But he only seemed to like it better when she did. I’ll tell my Mom, she threatened.

Jesse grunted, Who do you think sent me in here, you little whore. She owes you twenty bucks, kid, I gave her forty. Carli tried to sit up in bed but he pinned her down. She was tall for her age—5’ 6", but very skinny and no match for a big ox like Jesse.

In spite of her close relationships with boys in the trailer park, Carli had never engaged in the sexual act before. She liked boys only because she felt they were better to pal around with than girls. She liked to do the same things they did.

Now, with Jesse pounding himself into her, she felt pain she never imagined. His huge tattooed arm imprisoned her as she struggled to get her right arm free to reach for her bedside lamp.

Jesse was beginning to climax and became too involved in his lust to notice Carli’s hand reaching for the old, heavy, ceramic jar. She managed to get a grip on the neck of the lamp. As he grunted and moaned, Carli brought the lamp down on the back of his head with all the force she could muster. It made a loud, crashing noise.

He went out like a light bulb, still inside of Carli. She rolled him off of her with great effort and struggled to her feet adjusting her clothes. She half-expected someone to burst into the room but the party noises continued and no one came to her room.

Carli found Jesse’s wallet and looked inside for cash. She found seven dollars, which she stuffed in her makeup bag. As she tossed the wallet on top of his unconscious body, she spotted his leather jacket on the floor next to her bed. She picked it up, turned in inside out to hide the Harley-Davidson logo, and tossed it over her shoulders. Then she picked up Betsy, an old doll she had found in the trash when she was a child.

Clutching the raggedy doll in her free arm she jumped out the bedroom window and took off into the night.

CHAPTER

TWO

Sunday Night, July 1, 1990

The streets of downtown Los Angeles were jammed with people. Homeless folks and filthy winos were slumbering, nestled close to massive trash bins. Spanish-speaking women chatting loudly as they pushed huge grocery carts loaded with food. Young children trotted beside the carts. Teenagers loitered at the dimly-lit street corners.

Bianca searched and finally spotted a friendly face in the crowd. She asked for directions to the Fun Spot Motel which she had called up from a phone booth. The man was eager to help but his poor English made it very difficult for her to understand what he was saying.

She finally found the motel hidden at the end of the block. At the entrance, a couple of transients asked her for money and swore at her when she turned away without giving them any.

Two scantily-dressed African-American women were hanging out in the lobby. They regarded her rudely and laughed. The one with the blonde wig called out, Hey, whitegirl, this is our territory. Don’t plan on staying unless you want that pretty nose of yours to end up on your chin.

The elderly clerk in his undershirt grinned as if he thought they were funny. Then he said to Bianca, Don’t let those used-up, ole whores scare you, Miss.

I heard that! the fake blonde yelled back at him as they exited the lobby.

The clerk looked Bianca over, took the stogy out of his mouth and said, Hourly, weekly, what?

Surprised and relieved he didn’t ask about her age, she stammered nervously, Da…Daily, I guess. How much for two days?

As a response he jerked his head towards the rate sign on the wall and said, You pay cash—in advance.

Okay, two days. I have cash.

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Once in the room she collapsed on the bed breathing a sigh of relief. Exhausted from the long day’s events, Bianca rolled over on her back and stared at the water-stained ceiling, contemplating her next move. The unpleasant odor of musty carpet and the stale smell of cigarette made her nauseous, but she really didn’t care about peeling paint and stained walls. She worried about the big dent in her limited cash flow.

And about Carli—all alone in the park.

Bianca was very determined not to let anything get in the way of her ultimate goal. She was where she wanted to be, and in spite of the unpleasant episode with Carli, it had been a magical day for her. Free at last!

She fumbled in her backpack and fished out the business card from the guy in the park: Daryl H. Faulkner, Corporate Attorney. McMillan, Wilson, & Faulkner, Bianca read out loud. I wonder what he was doing in the park in the middle of the afternoon. She scanned the back of the card: Call me if you need help finding a job, he had scribbled. She smiled and slipped the card in her wallet.

As a distraction from the present offensiveness surrounding her in the room, she allowed the kaleidoscopic images of the day to race through her mind once more. She dozed off for a while until a screaming siren woke her. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand to find it was only 10:30 P.M.

Bianca decided to go out and get some snacks to bring back to her room. She wanted to get a good night’s sleep and be up early to start her job hunt. Tossing all her belongings on the bed, she picked out her hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste. She freshened up quickly with thoughts of exploring her new surroundings on the way to the store.

This proved to be somewhat of a disappointment for Bianca as she walked along the poorly-lit streets lined with dented cars, parked on both sides. A powerful feeling of sadness blanketed the jubilance she had felt earlier. A couple of lonely broken-down brownstone buildings loomed as if to pounce on her at any moment. They reminded her of Chicago; and her life in the slums.

A motorist honked and shouted to her in Spanish as he drove by in a dilapidated Chevy. Another pulled up beside her and proceeded to follow her slowly. Bianca turned and gave him an unfriendly stare. He ignored her hostility and began to massage his steering wheel suggestively as he ogled her from head to toe.

She shuddered and quickened her pace walking faster and faster until she got to the corner. She entered a small neighborhood store, SANG LEE FUNG GROCERY & LIQUOR. The attractive magazine rack occupied Bianca’s attention for several minutes. She used to enjoy leafing through magazines at the library where she did most of her writing. Aside from Writer’s Digest her favorites were Cosmopolitan, Glamour, and People. She decided to treat herself to the latest issue of Glamour magazine even though her cash flow was rapidly vanishing. Then she picked out a lipstick, a six-pack of generic soda, cookies and a bag of potato chips.

Except for a brief nap earlier, Bianca hadn’t slept in more than forty-eight hours. Tired and logy with arms loaded, she tried to find the checkout counter over the crowded shelves piled almost to the ceiling. Instead, she found herself approaching what seemed to be the back door. She turned around quickly and was about to ask someone to point out the checkout, when she felt a rough hand on her shoulder.

An elderly white-haired Asian man began to shout at her. You bad kids! You always stealing…stealing from me! I got you! I got you this time! Obviously, the store owner—and for an old man, he was very strong. He pushed her towards the counter as he yelled to his wife, Call the cops, Sue Lin!

Steal? Bianca squeaked in shock. I wasn’t stealing! Please don’t call the cops. I was only looking for the checkout…to pay, I…I…

He gave her a weary look. You lying, girl, this is where you pay, not there, he said sarcastically, as he angrily gestured towards the back door.

Bianca was terrified. She started to cry as she dropped the items on the checkout counter. Then she reached into her pocketbook frantically searching for her wallet.

It wasn’t there.

Oh God, no! she exclaimed, red in the face. Please, my…my money is at the motel. Honest! She looked at the store owner’s wife appealing for understanding.

You call cops, Sue Lin? asked Sang Lee, impatiently.

Yeah, Sang Lee, I call, Sue Lin said in a soft, defensive whine, you know they never come quick.

At this point, a female police officer came in the door. She was large and looked six feet tall. Her dark hair was cropped short and her brown eyes were surprisingly gentle.

Bianca took a couple of steps towards her and said, My money is at the motel. Please! I would never steal anything, Officer.

Sang Lee looked at the cop and rolled his eyes. A motel? She stay at motel? No-no, she a kid, she no got money.

Please let me handle this, sir, said the officer. My name is Officer Cox. She looked at Sang Lee sternly then turned to Bianca, smiling. Now, what’s your name, young lady?

Bianca…Bianca Davenport.

Well, Bianca, did you try to steal these items?

Sang Lee shouted, Yes, she steal. She try go out the door!

Sir, please! Officer Cox cast Sang Lee a stilling glance. "Now, did she try to leave the premises with the items, sir?"

No, but she was… Sang Lee protested.

I was looking for the checkout, officer.

Sir, you have no grounds to press charges.

But she don’t have cash…no money!

Did you ask if she’d prefer to pay by credit card?

She no have wallet, no charge card. Ask her?

"She has pockets in her jeans. How do you know she doesn’t have a credit card in her jeans? Did you ask her?

Well…no, she a kid. You know she no have credit card.

I want you to come with me, Bianca, Officer Cox said, ignoring Sang Lee’s outburst.

Hey, I press charges, Sang Lee insisted. You stop these kids. They steal from me all the time.

Sang Lee, sir, I know you’ve had problems with the neighborhood kids ripping you off, but you’ve got to be careful about pressing charges. This young lady never left the premises. She didn’t try to steal anything.

Sang Lee glared at Officer Cox but said nothing.

I will check out her story and be back in a little while to report, sir. The officer took Bianca’s arm and walked her to the squad car. Stop crying, Bianca, no one is going to hurt you. I can promise you that.

As she put Bianca in the passenger seat, Officer Cox looked at her and said, You’re a runaway, aren’t you?

I didn’t run away, Ma’am, Bianca said politely. I’m 18, and I’m a high school graduate.

To verify the facts