The first night after her grandmother died, Amara thought someone would help her. She was 14 years old, standing on the corner of 125th Street with everything she owned crammed into a backpack that cut into her shoulders. The guitar case hung from her other hand, heavy enough to make her arm ache. It was November, cold enough that she could see her breath in white puffs. She'd spent the afternoon at the apartment, her apartment, though it wasn't anymore watching the landlord change the locks.
He'd been nice about it, at least let her take her time packing. Even said he was sorry. But sorry, didn't change the fact that the rent was 2 months overdue and nobody was left to pay it. "You got family?" he'd asked. She had shaken her head.
"Friends?" another shake. He'd pressed his lips together, looking uncomfortable. "There's shelters. I can give you some addresses." "I'm fine," she'd said, "because what else could she say?" Now, standing on the street, as the sun went down and the temperature dropped, she realized she had no idea what fine meant anymore. She started walking.
No destination, just movement. Because standing still felt like giving up. The city looked different at night when you had nowhere to go. The lights seemed brighter, harsher. Every storefront was locked.
Every doorway held someone else who'd run out of options. Men with cardboard signs. Women wrapped in trash bags for warmth. Kids not much older than her with eyes that had gone flat. She walked for hours.
Her feet blistered inside her sneakers. Her shoulders screamed from the weight of the backpack. But she kept going because what else was there? Around midnight, she found a 24-hour McDonald's on 42nd Street. The fluorescent lights inside made everything look sickly yellow.
She bought a small coffee with the last $3 in her pocket and sat in a corner booth, making it last as long as possible. A security guard watched her from across the room, not threatening exactly, just observing. She lasted until 3:00 in the morning before he walked over. "You can't sleep here," he said. Not mean, just tired.
I'm not sleeping. You got to buy something else or leave. She didn't have money for anything else. She left. The subway station at Times Square was her next stop.
She'd ridden the subway a thousand times with her grandmother going to church to the library to free concerts in Central Park. But she'd never really seen it before. Not like this. Even at 3:00 in the morning, people moved through the station. Late shift workers and scrubs in fast food uniforms. drunk tourists stumbling toward their hotels and others like her, the invisible ones, the ones who lived in the margins.
She found a spot near the downtown end train platform far enough from the turnstiles that transit cops usually didn't bother with it close enough to foot traffic that she didn't feel completely alone. She sat down back against the tiled wall and pulled the guitar out of its case. Her grandmother's voice came to her clearly as if she were sitting right beside her. When you don't know what else to do, baby play. The music knows the way, even when you don't.
Amara positioned the guitar on her lap fingers, finding the familiar shapes of the chords. She started with Amazing Grace, the first song her grandmother had taught her. Her voice cracked on the opening line. Her fingers felt stiff, clumsy from cold, and grief, but she kept going. A man in a business suit walked past and tossed a dollar into the open guitar case without breaking stride.