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not like your picking names for the twins.” A pause. “Unless he’s so distracting you can’t keep your hands off him.”
    “It’s not like that.”
    Melody’s face could be cut from stone. “Of course it isn’t.”
    “Really.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I reach out and pull her arm toward me and look at her watch. “Your mom’s going to be home any second.”
    We both leap off the couch, and I hurry to the door. I gather my stuff, and Melody hugs me.
    “You look way better in those sweats than I ever did. Even if your ass is too skinny.”
    “Thanks for letting me borrow them.”
    “Just don’t let Derek see you in those, or you’ll be in real trouble.”
    “Thanks, Mel.”
    When we get to the door, she stares into my eyes as if searching for something. “So what are you going to do?”
    I sigh. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Chapter 4
     
    After splurging on two slices of pizza, I spend my evening washing my clothes at the most run-down Laundromat in history, a ritual I perform every ten days or so. I travel light, mainly because I don’t have much, but also because if you seem to have too much, you’re a target for other street people, who will gladly steal your shit without a second’s hesitation. It’s one of the constant problems I face, especially with Yam. Even as beat up as it is, it’s probably worth a hundred bucks at least, which is a fortune on the street.
    Nighttime can be pretty scary. I’ve got a routine, a few different places where I can sleep for a few hours before I move on. I’m constantly on the lookout for threats, and by now it’s second nature – other homeless, gangs, rapists, derelicts, police.
    There are a couple of places in Golden Gate Park and the panhandle green that are secluded and where I haven’t had any problems, but I never stay in the same place for long, because then I’m predictable, and I don’t want to be. I usually try to stay up till one in the morning, then crash for an hour or two, then move again. It’s a routine that can wear you down, but I’ve never needed that much sleep, and I’m used to it by now.
    My last two hours of slumber take place after dawn, at a bus stop where there’s a bench I can dominate. I’ve gotten so accustomed to sleeping sitting up, leaning against my guitar case so nobody can lift it while I’m out, that there’s a permanent indentation in it from my shoulder and head.
    When I come to, I begin my trudge to my spot and stop at a bagel shop for a large coffee and a blueberry bagel – I’ve still got six dollars and change left over from last night, so I’m feeling flush. That quickly dwindles to two, and after devouring my breakfast, I count out the change and part with half for a refill, leaving me a buck and pennies.
    It dawns on me for the millionth time that there’s not much of a future in my lifestyle, but I don’t see any way out. I won’t do what so many girls I’ve met have done to support themselves – there are some lines I won’t cross. Then again, so many of them have drug habits it’s not surprising they’re turning tricks. Even with the drop in the price of heroin and crack over the last five years, it can easily run a hundred or more per day to get by, and there aren’t a lot of options for underage runaways trying to disappear.
    I’m lucky I at least have a skill to fall back on. Not that it’s a particularly profitable one. But it beats the alternatives.
    I’m still pissed because two weeks ago the collapsible stool I found at the flea market got stolen while I was sleeping. It made a big difference for my act, but I don’t have another forty dollars to squander, so I’ve made do with the blanket. It softens the sidewalk somewhat, but I still think back to the giddy days of my stool with regret and fond memories.
    I turn the corner onto Haight Street and make my way to my spot and almost trip over my own feet when I see Derek already there, leaning against the wall with one foot against