hardest to capture on paper. I figured no one would be going into the water that day unless one of the hotels had booked a bunch of Scandinavian tourists. I was assigned tower twelve, which put me way down at the far north end of the beach. I rode a three-wheeled ATV down the sand, the cold wind making my nose run. When I pulled up to the tower, a pile of newspapers and cardboard made it obvious that the structure had a tenant already. At the top of the ladder I looked down into the sleepy green eyes of a fifteen-year-old girl. Her trembling was caused both by the cold and her fear that I was going to turn her over to the cops.
Her name was Elysia, and she was from Frostproof, a small town in central Florida. She stayed with me my whole shift. Nobody tried to go swimming that December day, so we had eight hours to watch the sea and talk. I wrapped her up in the gray county-issued blanket usually reserved for victims of near-drowning.
She told me why she couldn’t go back home. She said she and her mom just couldn’t get along ever since her mom had married this bum. Even before she told me, I knew what was coming. I could see the horror and disgust building in her eyes as she worked up the courage to talk about it out loud. When she finally told it, her voice remained emotionless. Her face went slack. It was as though it had happened to someone else, not her. Her stepfather had been sexually molesting her for six months, and according to Elysia, her mom deliberately chose to remain blind to the situation, to keep her man at the expense of her child. Elysia felt she had no recourse but to run away.
In a few weeks on the streets in Lauderdale she’d gone from being a teenager who smoked a little weed now and again to an addict who was turning twenty-dollar tricks for crack. At five in the afternoon I drove her to Lester’s Diner and watched her, a tiny thing at about five feet two inches and a hundred pounds, put away a mountain of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, salad, and pecan pie. That night was my first visit to Harbor House, but I’d gone back several times in the last few years, to visit Elysia and to drop off a few others I’d picked up along the beach.
Harbor House had helped her kick the crack and given her a place to stay while she pulled herself back together. Jeannie had assisted with the legal stuff, and Elysia became an emancipated minor. Not needing to go to a foster home, she just stayed on at Harbor House where she worked part-time as a peer counselor and office clerk. Last year, I convinced her to get her GED, and then B.J. helped her get a job as a hostess at the Bahia Cabana, a nice little patio restaurant on the Intracoastal. She was hoping to become a waitress soon, so she could start making the big tips and get out of Harbor House and into her own apartment. Just recently she’d started talking about maybe taking a class at the community college. I drove over the causeway to the beach and found a parking space a couple of blocks from the restaurant.
She was working the front when I walked in, past the outdoor Jacuzzi, up to the little sign that said Please Wait to Be Seated. She started to turn on the canned spiel for a couple of seconds, then her eyes lit up with recognition, and she ran up and hugged me, standing on her tiptoes.
“Seychelle! What are you doing here?” She pushed the unruly curls of redwood-colored hair back from her face.
“I came to see how you’re getting along, kiddo.” She looked great, and I noticed she was still wearing the little golden angel around her neck that I had given her for her birthday the year before.
Her eyes darted down and she reached for the charm. “My guardian angel’s checking up on me, huh?” Elysia smiled. She pretended not to like it when I watched out for her.
“Well, somebody’s got to, Ely. Look there. See, that couple just walked in, and here’s the hostess flapping her jaw with some friend of hers.”
She scooped up a couple of
Her name was Elysia, and she was from Frostproof, a small town in central Florida. She stayed with me my whole shift. Nobody tried to go swimming that December day, so we had eight hours to watch the sea and talk. I wrapped her up in the gray county-issued blanket usually reserved for victims of near-drowning.
She told me why she couldn’t go back home. She said she and her mom just couldn’t get along ever since her mom had married this bum. Even before she told me, I knew what was coming. I could see the horror and disgust building in her eyes as she worked up the courage to talk about it out loud. When she finally told it, her voice remained emotionless. Her face went slack. It was as though it had happened to someone else, not her. Her stepfather had been sexually molesting her for six months, and according to Elysia, her mom deliberately chose to remain blind to the situation, to keep her man at the expense of her child. Elysia felt she had no recourse but to run away.
In a few weeks on the streets in Lauderdale she’d gone from being a teenager who smoked a little weed now and again to an addict who was turning twenty-dollar tricks for crack. At five in the afternoon I drove her to Lester’s Diner and watched her, a tiny thing at about five feet two inches and a hundred pounds, put away a mountain of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, salad, and pecan pie. That night was my first visit to Harbor House, but I’d gone back several times in the last few years, to visit Elysia and to drop off a few others I’d picked up along the beach.
Harbor House had helped her kick the crack and given her a place to stay while she pulled herself back together. Jeannie had assisted with the legal stuff, and Elysia became an emancipated minor. Not needing to go to a foster home, she just stayed on at Harbor House where she worked part-time as a peer counselor and office clerk. Last year, I convinced her to get her GED, and then B.J. helped her get a job as a hostess at the Bahia Cabana, a nice little patio restaurant on the Intracoastal. She was hoping to become a waitress soon, so she could start making the big tips and get out of Harbor House and into her own apartment. Just recently she’d started talking about maybe taking a class at the community college. I drove over the causeway to the beach and found a parking space a couple of blocks from the restaurant.
She was working the front when I walked in, past the outdoor Jacuzzi, up to the little sign that said Please Wait to Be Seated. She started to turn on the canned spiel for a couple of seconds, then her eyes lit up with recognition, and she ran up and hugged me, standing on her tiptoes.
“Seychelle! What are you doing here?” She pushed the unruly curls of redwood-colored hair back from her face.
“I came to see how you’re getting along, kiddo.” She looked great, and I noticed she was still wearing the little golden angel around her neck that I had given her for her birthday the year before.
Her eyes darted down and she reached for the charm. “My guardian angel’s checking up on me, huh?” Elysia smiled. She pretended not to like it when I watched out for her.
“Well, somebody’s got to, Ely. Look there. See, that couple just walked in, and here’s the hostess flapping her jaw with some friend of hers.”
She scooped up a couple of
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