I can’t even begin to describe my first night in America.  The excitement and triumph Liam and I had imagined, gave way to the fear of what lay ahead.  What had I done?  

          Miraculously having made it through customs, I had run out of that airport as fast as my legs would carry me, hidden in the car park, and then returned two hours later to change the money I had stowed in the bottom of my bag.  A machine inside the airport whirred as it dispensed note after note of fresh American dollars, while I looked over my shoulder, not even noticing the value that flashed up on the screen.  Stuffing the notes back into my rucksack as quickly as I could, I looked around, my heart beating fast.  A yellow sign that read 'buses', pointed down a long corridor, busy with people jostling along.  Kids with pull-along suitcases covered in stickers, women in large groups with fancy hats and oversized sunglasses, men in smart suits carrying smart bags, all rushed past me in a blur.

          I looked in front and behind me as I walked down the corridor, still expecting to see my attendant looking for me, then jogged to catch up with a large group of children. They looked as though they could have been on a school trip and I muddled into the middle of the group, a couple of them staring at me, but for the most part, ignoring me.  Surrounded by children I felt safer but at the end of the corridor, the sky was black and cars with dazzling headlights disappeared into the night.  The children on their school trip all piled into a large yellow bus emblazoned with a school crest and I hung back, wishing I could climb on with them.  A few families with children were dotted nearby and I tried to stand close to them as I looked up at the electronic bus timetable. I was looking for bus number twenty-four to take me along the Blue Route to Santa Monica and I hoped that one of these families would be on it.  The children nearest to me looked sleepy.   One boy, small and bespectacled was slumped over his dad’s shoulder while another hung off his mum’s arm.  A few feet away, a young girl, about my age smiled at me and I smiled back.  She wore denim dungarees, a striped top and a yellow baseball cap.  She looked confident and happy and I looked longingly at the mothers and fathers around me.   Fathers who would figure out the bus route and carry bags, mothers who would tuck their children in when they got to their destination.

          Suddenly the rumble of a bus and the wheels of suitcases jostled me out of my thoughts and looked up. The bus approaching had a blue strike down the side and at the front, an illuminated sign that read Santa Monica – Pier.  The two families nearest to me were ready and climbed onto the bus while I hovered between them, hoping that each would think I was with the other.  I handed my ticket to the driver who eyed me suspiciously.

          “I’m coming,” I called to an imaginary parent at the back of the bus, and he seemed satisfied.

          Taking a seat next to a black-haired teenager who sat in front of the girl in dungarees pulling a Walkman out of her bag, I tried to look calm.  

          The bus journey was a slow twenty-minute ride that felt like it could have been done in half the time, but for me, it wasn’t long enough.  The end of the journey signalled the beginning of my first night on my own. On the bus, surrounded by strangers I felt safe somehow, but climbing down the steps and into the night, my body trembled and the goose bumps on the back of my arms had nothing to do with the cool breeze that was coming off the sea.

          It was now eleven forty-five at night and the last of the restaurants were closing leaving the pier in darkness.  Lamps spaced evenly along the boardwalk only created small pools of light and I tried not to stare at the people in dark clothes who slunk in the shadows between the lamps. Small noises made me jump and I hovered near the bus stop wondering which way I was supposed to be going. Swinging my bag round in front of me, I unzipped it awkwardly, determined to keep one strap securely over my shoulder.  A skateboard rattled past me, its rider in a wetsuit carrying a surfboard, wobbling and looking drunk.  The maps that Liam and I had printed were near the top and I pulled them out, my hands still trembling.  Looking down at the map, a small arrow marked the location of the homeless shelter were I would be spending the night.

          Trying to push images of desperate men in shabby coats and women with bags full of smelly clothes and plastic bottles, out of my mind I stepped out of the light of the bus shelter and was plunged into darkness almost immediately.  The sound of the waves crashing in the distance sounded eerie in the blackness and I skirted around every person who came towards me, terrified that they might be about to grab me, pull me into a van, or else drag me down into the darkness under the pier.  I tried to keep control of my imagination, but with every step, I pictured new and terrible possibilities.  Reaching Broadway, I ran along the dark street until I reached the turning I was meant to take, panting, but too scared to stand still for long.  I stared down 16th Street, which looked more like a back alley than a street to me.  The discoloured white walls were crumbling and dumpsters over flowed.  Everywhere I looked, there was graffiti on walls, bins and up streetlamps that flickered feebly.  An old car that stood windowless and rusting, blocked a pair of tall gates padlocked shut.  The place felt dark and dangerous and I had to will myself to put one foot in front of the other, jumping as rubbish bags toppled from a nearby bin and two small yellow eyes appeared and then vanished.

          There had been no photographs on the website of the shelter so I didn’t know what I was looking for, but after a few minutes, I noticed hundreds of rucksacks, suitcases, shopping carts, and carrier bags, all piled high outside a dark brown building.  A small group of men in baggy coats smoking cigarettes were the first sign of human life down the street, standing outside a set of metal double doors with the words shelter just visible above. Holding my breath, I approached. One of them stumped his cigarette into the ground as I reached them and looked me up and down.  I stared back at him, his gristly beard and black eyes looked hard and intimidating.

          “You goin’ in there?” he asked in a thick American accent and pointing up at the building.

          I nodded wanting to run.

          “Where you from?” asked another, who’s face looked younger and slightly softer.

          “Australia,” I mumbled.

          “Australia!” he laughed. 

          “You come all the way from there just to visit this place,” said the man with the beard, jerking his head towards the door.

          They all chuckled but made no further move.

          “Please can I get through?” I asked, ignoring their sniggers.

          “Well o’ course you can little lady, we don’t mean you know ‘arm.”

          The first man pulled the door open to reveal bright lights and pandemonium.  

          Swarms of people were gathered around a small reception area, shouting and coughing.  Men sobbed, women swore and somewhere in the crowd, a dog barked relentlessly.  I looked around, not knowing what to do.  The smell was already making me retch and I looked around at the people I would be sleeping alongside.  I had barely been standing there for two minutes when a man with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie strode over to me.  He looked strained as he bent down bringing our eyes to the same level.

          “Are you okay?” he asked softly and quietly.

          I nodded.

          “You’ve run away haven’t you?” he asked, smiling.  

          His tone was that of a father catching their son sneaking biscuits from the jar.  I shook my head, trying to think straight.

          “Okay,” he said, standing up and taking my hand, “Come on.”

          I pulled my hand away from his, my eyes darting around the room.

          “Hey there, it’s okay,” he said, but I could see in his eyes he was already thinking about ringing the police.

          If I ran, I would have nowhere to go, but if I stayed, I would surely be handed over to the Authorities. 

          “Please let me stay,” I said suddenly, “Please don’t call the police.”

          “Now what makes you think I’m going to call the police?” he began.

          “Please,” I said again.

          He eyed me suspiciously. I had been traveling for over thirty-four hours, hadn’t brushed my hair, and my clothes were tattered.  I certainly felt that I looked the part, but I could tell he was struggling with the concept of someone so young asking to stay. All around me men and women of all ages staggered around, but I was the youngest by far.

          “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

          “Sixteen,” I lied, not even sure if I could get away with it.  I was tall for my age but that was my only advantage. 

          He raised an eyebrow.

          “Sixteen?”

          I nodded.

          “Alright,” he sighed, as if too tired to argue. “You probably won’t get a bed but we can give you a sleeping mat.  You’ll have to find a space on the floor, and you need to go back home tomorrow okay?”

          I thanked him and followed him to the front of the queue where two women sat handing out sheets of paper.  I was handed a set of rules, a medical evaluation form and bed assignment sheet.  Then he led me into the cafeteria where tables were overcrowded with hungry men and women, dozens more queuing up in the hall outside.  Leading me once more to the front of the queue, he pulled a set of keys from his belt and unlocked a door to reveal a messy pantry behind.  In an open counter fridge were hundreds of sandwiches and cartons of juice. 

          “Ham or Tuna?” he asked.

          “Tuna,” I mumbled, trying hard to ignore the raised eyebrows of the kitchen staff as he handed me a sandwich and a plastic juice box.

          “Queue up here and give your bed assignment ticket to the woman behind the desk,” he told me as I shuffled forwards, trying to push the sandwich into my cardigan pocket.          

          At the desk, a hard-faced woman took my ticket and then directed me upstairs, where I received a small, slightly stained green towel, and was pointed to the showers.  Pushing open the door, I glanced up seeing women walking around naked and I shuddered.  The instructions said everyone was to take a shower before they would receive a bed, but there was no way I was going to undress in front of everyone.  Moving instead towards the sinks, I placed my bag on the floor between my legs and gripped it tightly.  Then I turned my head upside down and turned the tap on, soaking my hair.  I allowed the water to run for a few minutes before ringing it out and then drying it on the towel.  From my bag I pulled out a small fold-up hairbrush and began running it through the knots. Then I left the showers and joined the next queue.

          People stared at me as I clutched the sheets of paper, surprised perhaps by my age, but no one spoke to me as I moved forwards to receive my mat and blanket.  I passed through a set of doors and was ushered down a corridor into a large open room.  Bunk beds were crammed together, and people lay, stood and sat everywhere.  The room already looked full to bursting as more of us were motioned inside.  My stomach rumbled but I ignored it, favouring a space to sleep over the smell of the hot food that was wafting through the vents.  The smell of the food, though not particularly enticing was a welcome mask for the smell that was rising in the room.  All around me people coughed, spluttered, belched, snored and shouted. The noises reminded me of the din often heard at Carl and Hannah’s house and I knew it would not be the noise that kept me awake, but the fear of someone taking my backpack from me.  

          Edging around the hall, I noticed a couple who looked younger than most of the people in the room. They had a cleaner, less bedraggled look about them and a small space on the floor that was unoccupied.  I smiled shyly as I approached, and the woman smiled back.

          “You looking for a space?” she offered kindly.

          I nodded.

          “Do you mind?” I asked, motioning to the spot on the floor.

          She shrugged and they watched me as I lay my mat down, removed my cardigan and sat cross-legged on the floor unwrapping my sandwich.

          “I’m Nola,” she said, pointing her hand at her chest, “And this is Pedra.”

          I smiled, and they smirked a little as I held out my hand to shake theirs.

          “You’re a little young to be here on your own aren’t you?” Pedra observed from the top bunk.

          I shrugged, beginning to invent a story.

          “My whole family is homeless, we got split up on the trains from Sacramento to LA.  I can’t find them and they can’t find me.”  I finished, practising my new American accent and hoping it would wash.

Pedra simply nodded, as if homelessness brought about the inevitable, but Nola looked slightly more concerned.

          “When did you last see them?” she asked. 

          “We took the train at Santa Monica.  It was crowded and I got pushed out of the train too early and couldn’t get back on.”

          “And your parents didn’t come back for you?”

          “I never saw them again,” I answered simply.

          “Shit,” she whispered under her breath.

          “What about you two?” I asked, thinking it was the only question I could really ask.

          “We came to LA on acting jobs, low pay but something.  Then the academy kicked us out.”

          Pedra grunted something I couldn’t hear and Nola nodded.

          “Your landlord kick you out?” she asked, as if this was a common expectation.

          I nodded.

          “Something like that,” I replied.

          “That’s tough,” Nola said.

          We shared a little more conversation but after a while I felt my tiredness finally catching up with me. For the last thirty-four hours I had been running on a mixture of fear and adrenaline, but now, with a small, smelly space on the floor, I felt my eyelids drooping.  Tucking my rucksack underneath me, I slept on my front, something hard digging into my stomach from inside my bag.  I didn’t dare remove the bag for fear that someone one look inside it, discover all the dollars I had stuffed in there and either steal it or report it.

          It was a broken nights sleep, but I was grateful for the rest.  In the morning, bright sunlight came streaming through the high windows and I sat up and looked around me.  Most of the beds were still occupied and on the floormats, everyone lay dormant.  I decided to get up and head to the canteen to see if there was any breakfast.  Picking up my backpack, mat and blanket, I began to pick my way around the sleeping homeless, praying that I would find somewhere to live quickly.

          The canteen was packed with more people, fast asleep on black floor mats and it looked like the kitchen wasn’t yet open.  I decided to leave, wanting to get outside into the fresh air and eager to start my search for somewhere to live.  I dumped my mattress on the small pile of leftover mats and walked back down the stairs.  The man who had met me in reception looked up from a newspaper he was reading on the front desk and smiled in recognition.

He looked about to say something before I bolted out the door and back into the alleyway.

          In the daylight, it was a different world.  The dark corners now lit were less intimidating.  Bright white washing hung overhead and the graffiti gave the place a colourful presence.  I glanced over at the bins and noticed a small, fluffy cat balancing on top of a cardboard box, knocking bags that went tumbling to the ground.  At the end of the road, the city was bathed in sunlight and I looked down the gridded road towards the sea.  Out in the distance I could see windsurfers and jet skis, and in the streets and on the pier, life had returned.  Two joggers streaked past me, calling good morning as they went.  I waved at them and suddenly felt lighter.

          This was why I had run away. For the assurance of a better life.  Suddenly, the feeling of excitement that I had promised myself rose up inside me and for the first time since touching down in America, I allowed myself to hope.