Learning to Bow

Chapter 1: Minnesota

"Ara! We've had enough," shouted a gruff man in his 30s. His wife was crouched on the floor picking up the shattered glass of the vase I'd just thrown. "We take you into our home," he started and took a step forward, grabbing me by the hem of my shirt, "Feed you, clothe you." His fist was shaking and I stared him in the eyes, his fury reflected fully in mine.

"I never asked you to do that," I said, my voice controlled through my anger. I glared at him, ignoring the sound of clinking glass being dropped into the trash.

"Get out." He said, his voice low. The woman let out a sigh.

"And where will she go, David?" she said tiredly. My fists clenched, as I stared up at the man. His grip on my shirt loosened and I pushed against him to tear it away completely. With that, I grabbed my backpack from the sofa, swung it over my shoulder, and headed outside into the New York summer rain. Before the door closed I could hear the woman say, "You can't throw a foster child back on the street. Do something."

I intended to get far away before they could.

It wasn't long before the yelp of a Police vehicle arose me from my sleep that night. I was curled up in a little nook and cranny under the Manhattan Bridge. I wasn't the only one. There were many homeless that used the spaces in the Manhattan Bridge to sleep. Especially on a day like this. Through the pouring rain I could see an officer making his way to me.

His hair was quickly beginning to soak, and most of his other features were difficult to see in the darkness. The lights of the city barely shown through the relentless rain. He stepped underneath the threshold of the bridge and out of the rain.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked kindly. I didn't answer him at first. I expected him to ask me to come with him, to handcuff me when I refused, but instead he sat down next to me. A beam meant to support the bridge becoming his makeshift bench. "I was like you once, you know," he said. I didn't care for his sob story, but I guess he didn't know that. "I was a foster kid, moved from home to home when I lived up to no one's expectations." I scoffed at that.

"Expectation? No one expects us of anything." Except thievery, dishonesty- He cut off my thoughts.

"Then why are they surprised?" He asked. It didn't matter. "When we act out, when we run away." His words meant nothing to me. The gust of wind blew speckles of rain towards us. I shivered. "Come with me. I'll take you some place warm."

"I'm not going anywhere with you." I said harshly. I could make out his face briefly, he was young. Still, the lack of light in the rain made it difficult.

"Fine. Wait here a second." He went back into the rain, stepped into his car. The lights turned on in the vehicle when he opened the door. A few minutes later he returned under the bridge and settled himself back on the support beam. I stared at him confused.

"What are you doing?" I asked. He brought his feet up and laid back on the slanted metal beam.

"Camping. You won't come with me, I'll stay with you." The rain seemed to slow then and I annoyedly sat back down in my space, realizing the warmth I had left in it had all but seeped away.

"My name is Tim," he said then through the darkness. Several minutes passed before I responded.

"Ara."

"Nice to meet you, Ara."

When morning came, I was surprised to find two things: the police officer was still there, and the rain had stopped. I could see Manhattan across the East River, the streets already packed with bustling workers. The sun was just rising. Tim rose from his slumber and looked at me through tired eyes. He really was a young police officer. Probably in his 20s. And probably in trouble for pulling a stunt like this. I couldn't believe he had stayed the entire night.