But for every Layla who makes it, a dozen others are standing on a corner right now, clutching a broken rabbit or a worn-out library book, hoping someone will finally see them.
Last I heard, Layla found a transitional living program. She got the locker. She got the address. She starts community college in the fall.
By RJ01174495
I met her on the corner of 7th and Main, clutching a stuffed rabbit missing one eye. She wasn't asking for money. She was just there —a ghost in a crowded city, holding a sign that read, "I just want to read my book."
She looked up, surprised anyone had stopped. "Because if I'm reading," she said softly, "nobody yells at me. If I have a book, I’m a student. If I don’t, I’m just a runaway. The book makes me look like I belong somewhere." Girl And Homeless -RJ01174495-
Don't look past. Look closer. And if you see a girl with a sign that says "I just want to read my book"—stop. Ask her the title. You might just change a life.
Her name is Layla. She is seventeen. She has a grade point average of 3.9. And last Tuesday, she slept behind a dumpster because the women’s shelter was full and the night was too cold for the park bench. But for every Layla who makes it, a
Unlike the stereotypical image of homelessness—an older man, a shopping cart, a bottle in a bag—the homeless girl is a master of camouflage. She stays clean in gas station bathrooms. She charges her phone in the library. She wears her backpack like a turtle wears its shell: protection against a world that steps on soft things.
"Why a book?" I finally asked her.