“No loitering.”
Verdigris stared at the sign then back at the burly man ‘suggesting’ that she moved on. She hated signs. Hated everything they stood for and the things they made her do. They were rules, she hated rules. Hoisting her bag onto her back she brushed herself off and moved on.
It was some time before she found another place to stop. Behind one of the dumpsters she frequented. The sign screwed to the front of the big green bin merely said ‘no parking’ but she decided to hate it to, on principal of being a sign. This was not where she had wanted to rest for the night. This bin was emptied early on a Saturday morning. Early here meaning before the sky was changing to pale mauve, when the few stars visible from the smoggy city still twinkled weakly.
A saying about beggars choosing flitted through her mind as she plopped down behind the bin, the scent of old lettuce leaves and musty oranges wafted in the gentle breeze. The greengrocers was a good place to pilfer food during the day. But by the time night fell the dropped fruits were too bruised, the crushed vegetables too sloppy and the piles of coffee grounds too large to bother looking.
Her stomach growled. It had been a while since she had had a proper meal. She had ‘borrowed’ a donut while the owner was rifling through their handbag. A frazzled mother shopping had dropped a full box of cookies in the bin and left the empty one in the shopping bag. Two unattended burgers had been pilfered and a full chocolate thick shake saved from the tabletop where it had been left to melt. Besides that she couldn’t recall anything else she had eaten the last few days.
Shrugging her hoodie over her head she ignored the gurgles from the region of her belly and closed her eyes. She had to sleep, at least for a few hours until the trash collectors came. It would be better if she was not there when they arrived. Sleep crept up on her, and stole her from the grumbling of her own hunger.
~~~
Her eyes did not want to open, but the distant rumble told her that it was time to move on. She blinked twice and stretched up from where she had been sleeping. The three years she had spent living in New York had taught her to be ready to move on in the blink of an eye, so all that she had to do was stand and leave.
A yawn split her features and she raised a hand to cover it. A piece of paper poked her chin, killing her yawn instantly. She looked at the crumpled piece of brown paper with a twinge of terror. Someone had touched her in the night, compromised her hands, her one defence in an emergency.
Scuttling away from the bin and onto the street, lit by passing cars and the struggling moonlight she inspected the piece of paper. It did not seem dark or sinister. It was a wedding invitation. A less threatening note she could not have imagined.
Ducking down the first alley opening she saw she stood a few feet away from the solid wall and opened her palm, shoving the paper into her pocket with the other hand. A paperclip ricocheted off the thick concrete and fell, in a twist of crushed metal, to the ground. It was followed rapidly by a coin (pocketed) and a piece of string, a mere inch or two long. So whomever they were they had not been able to do anything to her power. She shrugged and moved out onto the street again.
Pulling the invitation out of her pocket under a streetlamp she scrutinised it closely. The date was for that day, the location- Her eyebrows rose and a hand flew to her ear to fiddle with her earrings. The school for “gifted youngsters”. The mutant school.
Who would have known what she was, to invite her to an event one of the few places she might be accepted for it, or in spite of it? It was a mystery. A mystery not to be left unsolved. Why would it be with the promise of free food, and a reason to enter that place she had only heard about on the news.
A place for mutants. She recalled the anger from one speaker, demanding equal opportunities. This grounds should not be wasted on a minority, they had claimed, but should be used for the benefit of human children needing schooling. It was these protestors, and the camera crews that seemed to revel in turning up unannounced, that had decided her against ever trying to enter the grounds. She was pretty sure, however, that she had a map, printed from Google-maps, as a backup just in case she ever needed to get there.
A swift rummage discovered the map and she inspected the estimated time based on distance. It was a while away, but not too far to walk. Not if there was food to be had and other mutants to suss out. Fear was the main reason she had never approached, and with the lack of visible mutations, like wings or skin that was the wrong colour, she was sure she would avoid any news crews that happened to be in the area.
A deep breath was taken. Smelled. Repulsed by. She shuddered and looked at her dirt smeared hands and grubby shirt. First to be clean, then to go on the epic quest for free food.
~~~
The shower had cleansed her and she felt suitably refreshed. Wrapping her towel around herself she inspected her most formal clothes. When packing to run away, you don’t tend to include heels and an ankle length dress on the list. She had emptied all her black tops into her backpack on the night she left, including a
black tank top that would pass as formal. Her tight flared jeans (only slightly blood spattered on the knees) and black and black
converse shoes completed the set up of the most formal attire she had access to, and that would have to do. With her wet hair pulled into a respectable semi-bun and a liberal spray of deodorant she was ready to go. She shrugged the black backpack onto her shoulders and paused to glance in the warped mirror.
“Not too bad… not too bad at all.”
Now for the long walk to the mansion. The invitation had been a sign, a sign that maybe it was about time she went looking for others like her. Time to face up to the fact that she might just need help in the big wide world. She hated signs.
