A House But Not a Home

Prelude

Zakia

If I look back to the memories I've had with my best friend Charlotte, my mind snaps back to the moments sitting inside her closet. I can't make any noise or get out because Charlotte's family will find out I'm in their home hiding. But Charlotte knows I'm here, I had asked her if I could stay with her because she was all I had left.

My foster parents had kicked me out, as simple as I could put it, they basically didn't want me around anymore. It didn't matter though, because I've never had any real parents to start out with in the beginning. Not only that, living there somehow made me a primary target by molesters and offenders. I hated that place, so I ran off and they never cared to look for me since.

I secretly moved in with Charlotte after school one day. We met up one morning and asked me what was wrong, and then I told her I'd been kicked out. Everything that I had in my backpack was everything that I owned and I told Charlotte I had nowhere else to go. It was the 3rd home I'd been placed in and throughout all of them, I wasn't happy. I could've asked the other girls that I hang out with for a place to crash, but I didn't. I thought that if I did, the word would just go out that I was desperate. Besides, Charlotte was the only person I was really close to; even if I haven't known her all my life, she was the closest person that I was comfortable with.

I thought it'd be different staying with her. She's unlike everyone else at school. She would help you out if you were down and even if she was down and others had problems nothing compared to hers, she'd still help them anyway.

I always thought it was because she had a normal family. She didn't have step parents like Michelle or the other half of our school. my bestfriend, after all, she lived with her real parents. A chance to see a normal family, right?

Her closet was my new room; I had been living here secretly for weeks. Sneaking in and out was a daily routine that I never got used to. The only way I saw anything that was going on outside was by peeking through one of the cracks made on her closet. Cracks, made by the impact of random things thrown, which were caused by either her or father. Posters covered over her closet to hide the true abuse that had been done.

"Diga a tu hermana que necessita estar en la casa. Esta tarde." her father bursts in yelling.

The door bursts open without warning. Charlotte's father just walked in, drunk as usual, but he's mad because Charlotte's older sister hasn't returned home yet. There weren't any doorknobs on any of the rooms, except the bathroom. Her dad had taken them all out. This was her dad's way of making sure no one was locking themselves in.

"She just got off work." Charlotte says.

"Huh?Que?"

Charlotte's father wouldn't understand, so she'd have to repeat herself in Spanish.

"No se donde esta. A ella esta en su camino a casa."

It was odd to see a girl like Charlotte speak Spanish so fluently; she was the whitest girl I knew. I mean, appearance wise, but she never followed the mainstream crowd. Put her into the crowd and she'd fit in just fine. But no, that wasn't her and I admired her for that. She was different, I guess, maybe it was one of the reasons why we became good friends.

"Llama a tu hermana." Her dad yells. "Ahora!."

"Okay I will."

"Huh?"

"Okay I will, dad." Charlotte said all moody.

"Que dijiste?" Her dad comes back.

"Dije que lo llamo." Charlotte said.

Even though he was Charlotte's biological father she wasn't allowed to call him "father." They were both far from alike; Charlotte's mother was white and her white skin passed on to Charlotte, her father was of Latin descent and Charlotte had none of his brown skin.