Wren

I grew up in apartment 308.

  It wasn't my childhood home, no, that was apartment 301. Actually, my childhood home was a small bungalow three hours from New York City, where I lived with my mom and my grandma, until I was seven. But then I moved to Apartment 301, in the city, and it wasn't a good place. It doesn't have any good memories for me. It gives me anxiety thinking about it, actually. But apartment 308 is where I felt good, happy. It was the only place I ever felt safe, for years.

  I think I was nine years old the first time I went into apartment 308. I'd seen her - the lady who lived there - plenty of times before that. In the lobby or the hallways, or in the stair case. The elevator was often out of order so we took the stairs a lot. She'd always wave at me and I waved back, but that was it. I moved into the building when I was seven, with my father. My mom got sick and passed away without six months, and my grandma wasn't able to take care of me, so my father - who I only ever went to visit once a year - got custody of me.

  My father "took care" of me, but just barely. I had to learn to walk to school on my own, almost right away, as a second grader. I packed my own lunches - when there was food in the apartment. My father worked a lot and had friends over the rest of the time. I hid in my bedroom, mostly. I read a lot of books, anything I could get my hands on, to put myself in a fictional world. Anything was better than apartment 301.

  The first time I went into apartment 308, it was after school one spring day. I was in 4th grade and had been walking alone for years, so her question surprised me.
"Hi there."

  She was tall and thin and looked concerned for me. She wore a long sweater and jeans and her hair was straight, brown and sat around her shoulders.

  "I saw your dad leave an hour ago, how did you get home?"

  I was standing near her door, on my way down the hall to apartment 301. Most days after school I sat in that apartment alone, for hours. But my father now had a girlfriend, and she was there sometimes, even when he wasn't. She really didn't like me, either.

  "I walk home from school," I told the lady, then shrugged my shoulders.

   "You walk home from school alone? In the city?" she asked, her face now warped with surprise.

  My school was eight blocks away. It was May and getting hot out and I was probably looking exhausted that afternoon. I know my worn out sneakers were dirty and untied. I'm sure my thin, blonde hair was messy.

  "Yeah," I answered, unsure why she was asking me this.

  "Why don't you come in here for a bit? I have some juice and cookies? I'm Julianna, by the way. Apartment 308."

  She pointed to her door.

  I looked at her door and the numbers. 308. I tried to force myself to remember this moment and this nice lady who lived here.

  "I'm Wren. Apartment 301," I copied her.

  "So, do you want to come in?" she asked again.

  I really did want to go in. She reminded me of my mom somehow, and she was young and nice. I had been taught about stranger danger in school, but she didn't seem like a stranger. I just had a feeling that it would be okay.

  So I nodded at Julianna, and that was that.

  On that first afternoon, we didn't talk much. I ate a crunchy peanut butter cookie and drank a glass of peach juice and I thanked her for that, and then went back to my dad's apartment. He didn't get home until 10P.M. that night, and I wished I'd stayed longer at Julianna's.

  But then my visits with Julianna turned into a weekly thing, and eventually it was almost every day after school. If she wasn't busy, she'd meet me out there in the hallway at 3:30pm and I'd go into apartment 308. I'd tell her about school and do my homework there, often with her help, and she'd usually give me a snack. I learned that she was a writer for a local news column and she worked from home, a lot. She told me she was an only child too, and her parents lived in another city, a small southern town. She was twenty-eight, that year that I was nine.

  "I really like it here," I would tell her, taking in the smells of the freshly baked cookies or her vanilla scented candles.

  "I'm glad," she's reply, and smile at me like I hadn't been smiled at in years. 

  "Does your dad know you come here to visit with me?" she asked me once afternoon, a few months after the first time.

  I shrugged at her and shook my head. "He doesn't care." 

  Julianna was like my Miss Honey. Yes, I'd read Matilda at least three times. I'd read a lot of books by the time I was ten. Julianna knew I needed a friend, a safe adult, and she became that for me.

  I don't know if my father ever knew about me spending so much time with Julianna, but over the next two years, I basically saw her more than I did my father. By then, he was either gone for entire days at a time or home, with his girlfriend or other friends. He barely acknowledged my existence, unless he needed something from me. Sometimes he'd give me twenty dollars and tell me to go get him groceries. More often, he yelled at me when I asked for something to eat.

  The worst were the nights, though, when he and his friends were drunk. I'd stay in my room and hide under the covers and squeeze my eyes closed until I fell asleep. It wasn't often, but when the door opened and someone came in, I pretended I was asleep. I held back my tears until they were done whatever they were doing and then I cried myself to sleep, scared and in pain. That happened from when I was ten to thirteen years old. It was random and I never knew when it would happen, which made it even worse. 

  I never told Julianna about that, because I didn't want her to worry about me anymore than she already did. I did ask her if I could sleep over a few times, but she told me she didn't think it would be right, considering she didn't know my father well.

  She didn't know him at all.

  Now at fourteen, I know better. I had my birthday three weeks ago and while my father didn't even remember it, Julianna had a small cake and a gift waiting for me, after school. Just after my birthday, I finally told my father that I would go to the police if he didn't put a stop to it - the men coming into my room, drunk, in the middle of the night. And while he denied knowing about it happening at all, it's finally stopped. Hopefully for good.

  But now, being fourteen, has a whole bunch of different problems.

  "You can take care of yourself," my father tells me, tossing on his coat one morning in October.

  I only just started high school a few weeks ago and turned fourteen. I can take care of myself, now? I've been taking care of myself for years, but I don't bother telling him that.

  "Okay," I say, barely looking at him.

  "I won't be around for a couple of days," he goes on, pushing his feet into his shoes. "Just keep to yourself and stay out of trouble."

  That's what I always do, but I don't bother saying that, either.

  "Alright," I answer.

  "I'm serious, Wren. Any trouble or if the cops get involved? You'll have a much harder life than you have now," he spits out, already half out the door.

  I can't wait until he's gone. It's better than when he's home and drunk, anyway.

*

  He's been gone four days and while I've been managing and getting to school and doing laundry, there's been no food in the apartment. I told my school councillor that I forgot my lunch twice this week, so he managed to get me something to eat at school. I'm not dumb, I know if this continues the school will likely try calling my father. Like that would do any good. The evenings and nights are the hardest. My stomach growls. I've been avoiding telling Julianna about how bad it's been, but now I know it's time. She's been my friend for five years. She's seen me grown up - helped me grow up. She's fed me and watched over me. I can trust her with this.

  The last two days when I've knocked on her door, no one has answered. She told me she had to go out of town for a day or two, but she said she'd be back by now. There have been plenty of days over the years that I've knocked on her door and she wasn't home, so I really don't think much of it.

  Today's the day I'm going to tell her how bad it is in apartment 301. If she's home, that is.
I knock, hard. My stomach is in knots.

  No answer. I knock again but I'm already turning around to leave by the time the door opens. I look back over my shoulder, feeling anxious and excited to see her. But it's not Julianna on the other side of the door.

  It's a man, but he's young. He has dark blond hair and he looks as confused as I feel.

  "Uh, hi. Can I help you?" he asks me.

  That's when I notice he's wearing dark blue jeans and a button up shirt. It's unbuttoned at the collar. Who is he? Julianna's friend? Brother? He looks a lot younger than her.

  "Sorry... who?" he asks me back. He looks tired.

  He seems distracted.

  Nothing makes sense. My stomach feels too tight and for some reason I feel like I'm about to start crying. I'm hungry - so hungry - and I just worked myself up to sit down and talk to Julianna about all the bad things that have been happening in my life. I haven't seen her in - how long has it been? - days and now this guy is telling me he doesn't even know who she is?

  What is going on?