The White Horse by Cynthia D. Grant

you’re hanging out with some bikers.”
    â€œAin’t none of his business what I do.”
    â€œRaina, why do you talk like that? Why don’t you talk the way you talk on paper?”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œIt sounds like you’re depressed. Have you thought about seeing a counselor?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œSo you can talk about your feelings.”
    â€œThat’ll help.”
    â€œIt might. Will you be seeing your family over the holidays?”
    â€œYeah, on America’s Most Wanted .”
    â€œDo you have any plans for vacation?”
    â€œI’m going skiing at Tahoe. Or maybe to Hawaii. I haven’t decided.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to stay at my house, if you’d like. I’ll be gone for a few days, but you could make yourself at home.” Invite your biker friends over. Hock the furniture for drugs. “When I get back we could spend some time together. Do a little shopping. Rent movies, make popcorn.”
    â€œMaybe we could sing some Christmas carols.”
    â€œRaina, you’re too smart to act like this.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œYou know exactly what I’m talking about. You need to stay on track if you want to go to college.”
    â€œCollege?”
    â€œHave you given any thought to what you’d like to do?”
    â€œYeah, I’m gonna be a supermodel.”
    I snapped. I’d had it.
    â€œYou don’t want me to care? That’s fine. That’s great. Then quit telling me you’re having a hard time.”
    â€œOkay.” She shoved the pages in her pocket.
    â€œWhat do you want from me, Raina?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThen why do you keep coming here?”
    â€œIt’s warm.”
    â€œWell, I’m trying to teach. This isn’t the Laundromat.”
    She shrugged. “So teach. Don’t let me stop you.” She sprawled in her chair, her eyes almost friendly.
    â€œAll right, then,” I said. “Let’s get down to business. The first thing you need to do is put out that cigarette.”
    She walked to the door, ground it out, and kept going.
    I refuse to believe that any child is doomed. But what if her hope is gone?

Chapter Twelve
    It seemed like the rain had always been falling, roaring like the traffic outside the Laundromat. She watched through the steamed-up windows, Bert talking. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it didn’t matter; he liked to talk, wouldn’t stop if she left.
    One morning, she guessed it was Christmas, less traffic, he brought her some clothes and cigarettes. They shared a bottle of his favorite wine and ate Chinese takeout for breakfast.
    Then she went to the Plaza and hung around with some friends; she knew their faces not their names, and everybody got real high on downers and drank a lot. She shrieked with laughter.
    Drifted in and out of people’s apartments. Slept in the Laundromat some nights. Fell down, got up, got loaded, passed out, never sure where she was when she opened her eyes.
    For a while she stayed with some Hell’s Angels, but they acted too corny, like TV bikers, trashing the place and having stupid fights. The fattest one hit on her all the time, so she told him she had something vague; not AIDS, he would’ve beaten her up.
    Money was tight; Christmas had tapped out the tourists, so she went to the block where the girls hung out, freezing in their miniskirts and short shorts, thighs flashing purple in the neon lights. A few of the girls didn’t want her around. One cranky blonde said, I’ll keep you in mind the next time someone’s looking for a toddler.
    But the others were nice, especially the drags, in their sky-high heels and flapping wigs. They treated her kind, like their own child; drove away the pimps and told her who to avoid. It worked out okay except one guy wouldn’t pay; he laughed in her face and walked out. And one night she got too