Legacy of a Dreamer Read Free

Grace, but she didn’t want to be called that because it was bad luck. She didn’t push her on it, and she never told a soul Peanut’s secret, earning the trust of a girl whose real name fit her subtle beauty better than her nickname.
    “What’s for dinner tonight?” Natalie asked, then pulled herself off the bed, picked up a hair brush from the dresser, and then went over to gently brush Peanut’s hair.
    “It smells like fish,” Peanut said in her soft voice, and Natalie made a face.
    “Did the boys go fishing in the canal again?” Natalie said, looking at Becca in alarm.
    “You know they did. John Paul had a whole bucket fulla bottom dwellers, and you know how he gets all proud when we eat his catch,” Becca said.
    Natalie and Peanut shuddered in response, causing Chantal to chuckle. She was going to miss this, she thought, and a sudden wave of grief enveloped her.
    New York law stated that a child could no longer receive foster care once they reached the ripe old age of eighteen, when they were considered an adult and no longer a ward of the state. It didn’t matter if the child was still in high school or if they didn’t have place to go, which resulted in a horde of uneducated, homeless kids with no hope for a future.
    Adiós! C’est la vie! Peace out and good luck!
    Chantal was one of the lucky ones, since her birthday fell in late summer. She’d already finished high school, having skipped a grade in elementary. Her good marks had given her an opportunity that not many in her position were awarded: an academic scholarship to NYU. Paying for room and board was another issue, but she’d figure that out once she got there.
    “Dinner!” Regina called in her usual bellow, and the girls grumbled as they reluctantly began to head out the door.
    “Just plug your nose,” Natalie whispered to Peanut. “It makes it taste less like slime.” Peanut giggled, following Becca out the door.
    “Hey.” Natalie paused to look up at Chantal in concern. “You okay?”
    “Yeah.” Chantal nodded, taking a deep breath to squelch the emotions threatening to consume her. “Just nervous, you know?”
    “Don’t be,” Natalie said in a firm tone. “You’re going to be fine, Chantie. Out of all of us here, you’re the one that will make a better life for herself. Just . . . be safe, okay?”
    Chantal nodded, unable to speak against the lump in her throat. Natalie gave her a half-smile and left the room. Chantal got up and made her way down the bunk ladder with a slowness that matched the heavy emotion in her heart. This would be her last night of security. Tomorrow was her birthday, and there was no telling what the future would bring.

“It’s not much, but it’s clean.” Chantal glanced around the small studio apartment, taking in the space she’d be leasing on a month-by-month basis at a decent price. Located near a subway station, she’d decided that although it wasn’t close to NYU, a thirty-minute train ride beat trying to afford a nicer place. It would be the first time she’d ever had something of her own, and despite the less than hospitable neighborhood, it was hers.
        “It’s perfect.”  
    She beamed at her new landlord, her exuberance not amusing. Mr. Cannon was a stout man with three strands of hair and a firm, unyielding expression.
    “Rent’s due the first Tuesday of every month,” he said and then turned a steady gaze on her, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t take late payments, so if I don’t get my money, an eviction notice will be given for the standard thirty days.”
    “Here.” Chantal reached into her bag, pulled out a wad of cash, and handed it to him. It was half of what she’d earned in the last three years working at the neighbor’s pawnshop. “This is the next three month’s rent up front.”
    Mr. Cannon stared at the money, his mouth slack, obviously never having been paid in advance before. She figured his tenants weren’t the type to be able to. The term