No Such Thing as a Free Ride Read Free Page A

lives. That didn’t mean we stopped caring about each other though. I loved Bobby. I always would. And I knew in my heart he felt the same way about me.
    “So what started all of this?” DiCarlo asked, jerking his head sideways as the manager handed his gun to Mike. Slowly, the teens began to disperse.
    I filled him in, looking over at the small blond girl. She caught me staring at her and quickly moved away.
    “Bobby, those kids seem so… I don’t know… lost. Are they homeless?” Philly has more than its fair share of runaway youth. Some are locals, but a lot of them end up here from various places like small farm communities in the Midwest. Coming from a loving if somewhat neurotic family, I couldn’t conceive of anyone choosing the streets over a home with three square meals a day and a roof over their heads.
    Bobby frowned and I could feel his concern. Maybe he was thinking of his own little girl, a sweet little two-year old named Sophia. “I’d say most of them. A few might be weekend warriors—y’know, posers who like to hang with the really hardcore street kids.” He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. DiCarlo had seen too many of these kids face down in the gutter, victims of abuse and neglect.
    “Well, why don’t the cops pick them up and find foster homes for them? Or at least take them to the shelters. Isn’t there one on Callowhill Street?”
    Bobby grinned again, only this time there was no mirth behind his eyes. “You’re asking for simple answers to complicated questions, Sweetheart. I wish it were that easy.”
    On the ride back to my house I thought about what Bobby had said.
Why wasn’t it that easy? Some of those kids were mere babies. Surely, they’d be better off back with their families or in foster care than out on the streets. How bad must their home lives be to choose a dumpster over their own beds? The thought stuck in my brain and wouldn’t let go.
    When I got home, I headed into the kitchen to grab something to eat and found my kitten, Rocky, sitting on top of the counter, swiping tomatoes off the window ledge. She looked up when she saw me, gave me the once-over as only a feline can and knocked another tomato onto the floor. It landed with a splat. My dog, Adrian, a twenty-pound furball with a water fountain tail, appeared out of nowhere and began lapping up the tomato goop. I thought about stopping him, but then I’d have to clean it up myself.
    Well, now that all the tomatoes were gone, I guessed I didn’t have to make a salad with my dinner. I’m trying to eat healthier these days, only all the stuff I really like comes wrapped in foil with the word Hershey imprinted on it. Self improvement is hard work. It involves a lot of exercise and denial and… leafy greens.
    My mother called while I was eating. She and my dad live in Florida, and ever since she discovered the joys of “rollover minutes,” she’s been burning up the airwaves with free long distance calling.
    “I’m worried about you,” she announced, my mother’s signature way of saying hello.
    “Why are you worried? I’m fine.”
My
signature way of saying, “Hi back at’cha.”
    My mother exhaled a long suffering sigh. “Brandy, it’s a Saturday night and most single women your age are out on dates. Doesn’t Janine know any nice, unattached men she can hook you up with?”
    I assumed she meant the 1960’s version of the term “hooking up” and not the X-rated one of the new millennium. Either way, Janine didn’t know any nice men,
period.
    “Mom, I’d love to talk now, but I’m right in the middle of cooking dinner.”
    “You’re cooking?” she asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice.
    “
Yes, I’m cooking.
As a matter of fact, I made a lovely meal. Roasted chicken, baby new potatoes, steamed asparagus and peach cobbler for dessert.” Okay, that was a lie. I nuked a Lean Cuisine.
    “Listen, Mom, Paul is thinking about signing up for
J Date
. He’s dying to talk