“Ange?”

“Hmm...?”

“Hey, Ange! I'm talking to you!”

Somebody kicked me on the shins. I didn't really have too look around to see who it was, but I did so anyway. I didn't want to be kicked again.

“Yes, Jen? What's up?”

I tried to look at her, but it was really difficult. Over everything around me, there seemed to be the superimposed image of a certain person. A person I would see again in only a few hours...

“...and haven't been listening to me at all!”

“Hm... Sorry, what did you say?”

Jen glared at me.

“I said you look even more strange than yesterday, and you haven't been listening to what I said all day. And all the time you've got this inane grin on your face. It's driving me crazy! What the hell is the matter with you? You haven't touched my stuff, have you?”

Sandra frowned.

“What would Angela want with your schoolbooks or pencils? She's got her own.”

Jen rolled her eyes.

“No, I haven't gone near your... stuff.” I shook my head, hoping fervently she didn't mean what I thought she meant. “I don't know what's up with me. I just...” My voice trailed off, as I lost myself in memories of Giacomo's lips. I took another sip of coke from the can. The metal was too cold, too hard. I needed something warm and soft pressing against my lips very, very soon. But the taste... Oh yes, the taste brought back memories.

500 $ a bottle.

“Jesus, Ange, what's up with you? I'm getting seriously worried over here!”

I just smiled and took another sip.

“It's obvious,” Anastasia proclaimed. “Can't you feel the romantic energy emanating from her? She's in love.”

I spit out a mouthful of coke. Luckily, we were out in the park, at our favorite spot under the statue of the big fat guy, and not in school. The coke probably didn't bother the earthworms as much as it would have bothered the janitor.

“W-what?” I stammered.

The other two stared from Anastasia to me, red hot in the face, and back again. Then, very slowly, Jen started to snicker. Sandra followed suit and they broke into laughter. It took me a few seconds before I felt well enough to join in, and even then, my laughter sounded rather half-hearted.

“Right,” Jen snorted, thumping me on the back. “That'll be the day!”

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

It wasn't day anymore, it was evening, turning into night. Finally. I was nearly bursting with anticipation by the time I arrived at St. Christopher’s. Anticipation, and anxiety. Would he already be there? Would he smile at me? Where would he take me tonight? What would we do? These questions, particularly the last one, were rather distracting and Debby had to repeat her 'hello' three times before I noticed she had appeared beside me.

“Angela?” She bent down to me, concern written on her face. “Is everything all right?”

I seemed to be hearing that question rather a lot lately. 'Yes,' I wanted to say. 'Yes, Everything is more than all right. Everything is righter than it ever was.' But I couldn't. Instead I just shrugged and said, “Oh, I was just thinking.”

“Can you think inside, too?” Debby shivered and draped her cloak tighter around herself. “It's getting damn cold out here.”

She was right. I tended to forget little things like that when I was 'thinking'.

“Sure.”

Debby unlocked the door to the shelter and stepped inside, holding the door open for me.

“You're awfully early tonight,” she remarked. “Any special reason?”

Fortunately, Debbie didn't have the same power to turn my ears red that Father Marvin apparently possessed.

“No. I just didn't have anything else to do and thought I would help you get started.”

“That's sweet of you. Come on in. We're making meat pie tonight.”

I found myself inquiring after the making of this dish, and not just because I wanted to prevent my mother from poisoning the family the next time she decided to make it. Hang on, what was happening here? Was I developing an interest in cooking? Ugh! That was so... conservative.

Suddenly, though, an image entered my mind: Myself and Giacomo seated at a beautiful table, a fine dinner before us, perhaps sharing food, and a bit of footsie? The image was as unrealistic as it was alluring. Perhaps learning to cook had its benefits besides keeping my mother from getting thrown into prison for three counts of homicide.

So for the following two hours, I hacked meat, peeled potatoes, washed and sliced carrots, learned that when beating an egg it is advisable to use a fork instead of your fists and generally extended my knowledge of the wonderful world of cooking. I was so absorbed I hardly noticed how the shelter slowly filled up and other people started to work around me. That is, until through the smells of foodstuffs I caught a very particular odor. Leather, with a bit of smoke. But not cigarette smoke. I had never seen him smoking. I forced to keep my eyes down as I felt him pass me.

Don't look at him, I chanted in my head. Don't look at him, don't look at him. It will only draw attention to you if you look at him, and you don't want that, do you? So don't be stupid. Don't look at him.

Easier thought than done. And really, a little peek couldn't hurt, could it? It would be suspicious if I didn't look at him. After all, everybody looked at everybody else at some time. So why shouldn't I look at him? Yes. That made sense... no! I shouldn't! I couldn't!

The rest of the time didn't go by quite as quickly. Engaged in a constant struggle to keep my eyes down, I hardly noticed anything about what I did, apart from the fact that it took an awful lot of time. Distracted as I was, I was surprised that I didn't accidentally try to cook a rolling pin or something of the sort. I must be getting the hang of this cooking thing.

Nothing really entered my consciousness though, until I had started serving and reached the table at which normally, the old lady Prue had greeted me with a smile. She wasn't there. I looked around. She wasn't anywhere else in the room, either.

“Where's Prue?” I asked the elderly man sitting right beside the old lady's usual seat. “Is something wrong with her?”

He looked up at me, surprised. “Prue? No, everything's fine. She just moved on, that's all.”

“Moved on?”

An iron claw gripped my heart. Oh no.

“Sure, sweetheart.” The man took the plate with his slice of pie out of my unmoving hand. “That's what we do, you know. Move around. That's why we're called 'homeless'.”

“Because you have no home,” I whispered, staring off into the distance.

“Yah. Oh, sweetheart, you don't need to look so sad.” He padded me on the back. “It's not so bad. You get around a lot, meet new people. A home's just a place. As long as you don't leave anybody behind that matters, what's the difference if you are in Frisco or LA?”

“Yes... I suppose you're right.” My voice sounded far too hoarse. I tried to swallow, but couldn't do it.

“There, you see?”

The old man seemed to be genuinely touched by my feelings on the matter, although I couldn't be sure since I couldn't see his face. My eyes were on another face. The very face they were not supposed to look at. No, no, no! As if I needed another contestant for 'most horrible problem'! This just couldn't be.

The old man padded my back again. “Our life isn't too bad. Everybody we know moves around, too, and we never stay in one place long enough to get attached to it or any of the people there. Who would waste his time on us, anyway?”

I tried to swallow again. This time it worked. Barely.

“How long?”

“Eh?”

I looked down at the old man who was digging into his pie.

“How long do you usually stay in one place?”

He waved his hand. “Oh, I don't know. A few days. Two or three weeks at most.”