#wlw implied

"The Lodge, as we called it, was packed with sleeping kids as I got ready to meet Cara at Ciela’s Coffee. There were toddlers in cots to almost-twenty year olds in sleeping bags that were too small. I tried not to dwell on it as I walked down the block to meet Cara. All of The Lodge kids liked Ciela’s Coffee. Ciela Curtis had been one of us, years ago, so we tended to get a free table for breakfast. I let out a breath as I saw Cara sitting at our usual spot in the back. The place was sort of rundown, but in a home-y type of way. The dark red vinyl was peeling off the benches, and the place smelled like Cherry Coke and faint cigarette smoke. I slid into the bench, which was facing Cara. We all called her Caramel because of her infamous order here. They’re called “Caramel Apple Crumble Cakes”. It’s a stack of just-right fluffy pancakes with crumbled up pieces of caramel apple on top. She’s been ordering them since our first visit here. I personally didn’t care for them, though.

“Hey, Vi!” Cara said as I sat down. She was already eating, and my favorite black coffee was on the table in a mug.

“Hey Cara.” I responded, picking up the mug and taking a sip. Perfectly bitter, just the way I liked it. We talked for a while, as we usually do, about everything under the sun and finishing up our food.

We eventually started walking to Cara’s workplace. It was a small auto shop called “Oilline Auto”. It had a garage in the back, and broken windows. None of us really minded, though. Growing up on the streets just makes broken items like windows invisible to you. It was honestly more of a shocker if a window was fully intact on this side of the city. Her boss was this forty-something named Randy Newman. He was pretty built, with dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. He had inherited the shop from his dad, apparently. I liked Randy, he gave me free Pepsi and gummy worms from the vending machine when I visited with Cara. She wandered to the garage in the back of the shop, which was crowded with old cars that needed some form of a fix-up. She pulled a dirty old sheet off of a car near the back corner, and I gasped. It was a Malachite colored Volkswagen Beetle, and, with the way the model looked, I estimated it was from the 1970’s.

“Ya like it?” Cara remarked, a giant grin on her face. I couldn’t do anything except nod, a matching smile gracing my lips.

“That is so sick…” I muttered in awe. After her shift, around maybe nine, she woke me up, pulling me from the lumpy, old mattress we shared in our corner of The Lodge since there weren’t enough for us to have our own.

I could barely hear her excited ramblings, as I was still half-asleep, till the cold, albeit heavily smoggy air of nighttime New York hit my face. The same Beetle from earlier was sitting in the parking lot next to a few more modern cars. The off-white vinyl seats were in prime condition and so much softer than the mattress that I practically sunk into the passenger seat.

“Where are we goin’...?” I muttered drowsily as she climbed into the driver’s seat. She looked real pretty in the streetlight. All my tiredness was lost as she shot right out of the parking lot, feeling like the car was going at the speed of light. Everything was rushing past us, yet…the buildings were changing. Some of the more recent ones were just straight-up disappearing right before our eyes.

“Cara…?!” My voice was rising, my hands gripping the doors for dear life.

“I don’t think we’re at home anymore, Vi…” Cara breathed out, stopping the car.

I stepped out of the Beetle, dazed. Everything just looked plain wrong. There were too many vintage cars parked on the side of the building, most of the buildings had either disappeared or changed, and everyone looked different. There were girls in stripes, and most boys were in bellbottoms and leather jackets. I suddenly felt out of place with my unwashed hair and “The Outsiders” shirt, which had holes in it. My jeans were frayed and covered in dirt too. Everything looked like a bad sitcom here. I looked at Cara, who was also looking around. I grabbed her hand gently, running my thumb over her nails. We went up to a girl who looked to be our age, in a pinstripe jumpsuit and big hair.

“Excuse me, miss, but what year is it?” Cara asked in her “polite” voice, aka the one she always used to make her not sound like an orphan.

“Why, doll, it’s 1970!” The perky woman replied. We said our thanks, trying to hide the panic in our voices. We were about to head back to where we parked the Beetle, until we heard squeaking from a nearby alleyway, three girls leaving it. They looked vicious, in matching dirty dresses and greasy hair. Cara exchanged a glance with me, and we immediately started running, my dirty converse slapping the concrete. We shoved past the girls, earning a scoff from a blonde one in a dark red dress covered in dirt.

When we slowed down, we noticed somebody in the corner of the alley. They were skinny, almost malnourished, with short ginger hair, and wearing a leather jacket. They were curled up in a ball, their head buried in their knees. From what I could tell, their knuckles were covered in blood and looked raw. There was a small silver switchblade next to them, which was also covered in blood at the tip. I approached them quietly.

“You okay?” I whispered, kneeling at their side. They flinched, their hands balling up into fists almost on instinct.

“Please don’t hurt me…” They muttered, in a small shaky voice. Me and Cara shared another look.

“We won’t, I promise. Now let’s get you cleaned up, mkay?” Cara said in a gentle voice. We helped the kid up to stand, their legs wobbling. They told us their name was Skit as we helped them clean up. After Me and Cara helped them clean up, they led us to a place tucked behind two shops on a busy streetside. It was an abandoned clothing factory. The label of it was fading, and it smelled like mud. All of the machinery was nowhere to be seen. The flooring was linoleum and the walls were wood. All that was on the floor was a dirty twin size mattress that was covered by a raggedy blanket and a torn copy of “The Great Gatsby”, which was lying next to it.

“Welcome to my hideout…” Skit said, plopping down onto the worn mattress and picking at the scar that I had noticed slashed across their hand. They ended up letting us sleep on the floor for as long as we needed, though the hardness of the linoleum wasn’t as comforting as my mattress was back home.

I was sleeping soundly until, around midnight, I heard the sound of glass breaking and a short scream. I jolted up. Those three girls from earlier were back, and currently holding a knife to Skit’s throat, making them squirm not to scream. I saw red almost immediately. Nobody messed with our friends, definitely not like that. So I punched the one with the knife. As soon as I did, they screamed and scattered, dropping the small silver pocket knife in the process. Skit practically collapsed into my arms, burying their head in my shoulder.

“Thank you…” Skit muttered, their voice breaking. I just shushed them and ruffled their hair. They walked back to their mattress, and I returned to my spot on the floor.

The days came and went, since we decided to stay in the 70’s for a while longer than we probably should’ve. One day, in the middle of October, we managed to find Skit a home. It was this single father named Bill, who ran a little shop called “Oilline Auto”. It didn’t take me long to realize that his seventeen year old son was Randy. Me and Cara hopped back into the Beetle.