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Marianne about this would be suspicious so instead I talked to Scotty. We devised a watch out system for the stoop. We took turns guarding our territory while the other was working and we began looking out for each other in other ways too. One day Scotty would bring extra bread to share and in return I would wash his spare socks in the left over basin water at school. Whenever Tommy bullied me, Scotty would step in and threaten to break his nose again, and he could too. Tommy was slightly built and not very strong. Scotty was only eleven but stronger and sturdier than Tommy was at thirteen. He knew more than his share about fighting too, the way he held his arms and fists made me wonder.
    One night Karen came to the stoop crying, her dress had been torn away at the hem and there was blood mixed with mud on her legs. She had no noticeable scrapes or cuts, only a pink tinged blood slowly making its way from her thighs down the back of her knobby knees, slowing down to pool at her ankles. Tommy was livid and unable to comfort Karen because he had plans to go out and “kill” the asshole who did this to her.
    “What happened, Scotty?” I asked, unaware of how she was injured.
    “You’re just a kid, aren’t you?” he replied.
    It was the first time he insulted me and I cried softly into my hands, feeling like an eejit at my confusion and misunderstanding. Tommy cradled Karen in his arms and whispered sweetly to her until she fell asleep.
    That night I missed the click clack of my mama’s knitting needles as well as the very smell of her, I envisioned her there with me, her arms protectively around me, sheltering me from harm as she always had. She hummed sweetly into my ears and I allowed myself to feel her presence and for a fleeting moment the heaviness I felt weighing me down lifted.
    The next day at school I felt distraught and told Miss Marianne about Karen. She asked once more where I had been and because it was against my conscience to fib a second time I told her about the stoop. Once school ended Miss Marianne took me to the Elizabeth Home for Girls. At the home I was to learn to sew and type in order to become a productive member of society. I would have a cot to sleep in at night as well as food to eat. I would also have a place to wash. I hated this home; the girls, fifty-eight in all, were crammed into rooms often two to a cot. The showers were communal and older girls made fun of my “buds” and short boy hair. I was teased relentlessly that my mama taught me to do laundry and this made me livid. I missed Scotty, and even Tommy and Karen and I was upset that I never got to tell the shopkeeper I wouldn’t be there the next day to sweep away the grime on her sidewalk. I remembered how the blood tinged loogies and spit got stuck in the broom making it wet and harder to use. I had devised a way around this but now the job was lost and it didn’t matter.
    I was no longer permitted to go to school in lower Manhattan and I missed Miss Marianne’s kindness terribly. Most of the girls at the Home were older than me and had no more reason for schooling. They were learning to type for secretarial jobs or learning to sew in order to become dressmakers. We were fed measly portions of greyish soup with chunks of mystery meat that barely filled our bellies. Many of the girls were delinquents and they caused much havoc, they were caught smoking in their rooms or sneaking out with boys, one girl even became pregnant while in the home. I quickly learned the ways between a man and woman and now knew what happened with Karen. I hope she wasn’t doing “it” to make coin, for that would mean she did it on purpose and she was only thirteen. The thought made me shiver and I held myself in a bear hug promising never to do this no matter how bad my circumstances became.
    I had only been at the home for three weeks when one morning while making the bed I shared with a girl of fourteen, named Mira, I noted my few belongings