In an instant, the two were gone, darting out the door, back onto Market Street. Angelo then looked the other way and saw the reason for their quick departure; a young man and his female companion, both dressed in jeans and bright green tee shirts reading "Teen Help" were headed down the corridor towards Angelo.
"Were they bothering you, miss?" the young woman asked Angelo. She was a husky young twenty-something-year-old woman, her brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
She had a freckled face and a friendly smile.
"A little," Angelo responded. "They seemed to really want me to go with them. I was getting very scared."
"You were wise to be scared," said the young black guy who introduced himself as Melvin. "Those two were up to no good."
"Do you need any help, miss?" the young woman inquired. "I'm Karen, from Teen Help. We're a youth help group."
Angelo looked at the two. They looked innocent enough, but he feared, they'd probably call the police and soon he'd be back in the foster care system as a boy.
"No, I'm fine," he quickly told them.
"Are you sure, honey?" the girl asked with genuine concern. "Where are you headed?"
"To visit a girlfriend here," he told her. "Here's her address. How would I get there?"
Angelo handed Melvin a piece of paper with Debra Jean's address on it. He took a look at it and got a quizzical expression on his face. He then showed the address to Karen.
"This can't be right," Karen said, taking the paper. "I know the area and I'm pretty sure this address doesn't exist on that street."
She quickly searched for it on her phone.
After a few moments, she looked up and replied, "Yeah, that's what I thought. The number's too big. There aren't that many blocks on this street. This address would put her in middle of Sloan's Lake."
Angelo's face reddened. He explained that when he tried to call Debra Jean, she hadn't answered the phone, either.
Angelo finally admitted he had only about $6.00 left, and that he had no place to stay unless he could find Debra Jean.
Within a few minutes, the two Teen Help workers had led Angelo into a small private room, with a little table and four hard-backed chairs.
The room was named: "Police Room." It was a drab room, painted gray and devoid of any pictures on the walls.
Angelo suddenly wanted to bolt away from these two workers, fearing they were actually police officers, or that they were connected in some way with Miss Pentacost, but, Melvin had him by the arm, and he couldn't escape.
They asked him to sit in one of the chairs, with Melvin sitting opposite and Karen right next to Angelo. She gently took hold of his hand, as if to lend support.
"Now, young lady. Tell us about yourself. Who are you," Melvin asked.
Angelo observed that Melvin was a tall, trim young adult, with a rich creamy brown complexion and closely trimmed hair. He had a gentle manner, but he also sounded firm, with a no-nonsense demeanor.
Angelo sat looking at Melvin, saying nothing. He had no idea what he should tell them. How could he tell them who he really was, that he was really a boy?
"Come on, we won't bite," Karen gently coaxed.
It was obvious these two street workers were used to dealing with runaway children whose only defense was often to clam up and say nothing.
"Look, we're not the police and we're not CPS or any other alphabet agency from the government," Karen continued. "Your secrets are good with us."
"Yes, honey," Melvin began, "We know that many children run away because of abuse at home, and we need to find out what your issues are. It's the only way we can help."
"That's our only objective here, to help you," Karen added.
Angelo sat primly, as a proper young lady would, still refusing to say anything, but it didn't take long before he was sobbing, with tears running down his cheeks. Karen reaching over to wipe them with a tissue.
"You look healthy enough," Melvin said. "I don't think you've been abused, not physically anyway. Something's wrong though, isn't it?"
Soon, Angelo was crying out loud and found himself in the arms of Karen, who held him gently, patting his slender back and lightly brushing his hair. His body shaking with each sob.
He finally told them that his name was Angela and that he was fifteen and from a city about an hour and a half away. They closely questioned him on his age, since they both felt he couldn't have been more than a girl of thirteen, given the frailness of his body, and the fact that he seemed to not have very well developed breasts.
When their interrogation of Angelo produced nothing more, Melvin suggested, "We better take her to the shelter and decide there, what to do about her."
They then led him out of the station, to a white minivan labeled, "Teen Help: Street Outreach Rescue Unit." Melvin opened the side door and Karen got in. Angelo entered after her. Melvin then shut the door and went around to the driver's seat.
"Where are we going?" Angelo asked through his tears. "A safe place for you, dear. There, we'll find out what's bothering you and determine how we can help you."
Melvin drove them across town to a less populated area. They eventually ended up down a shaded, heavily tree-lined street, stopping in the driveway of an old-fashioned mansion.
Once inside, he was led through a lounge area which at one time must have been the living room, he thought. Several teen girls were watching a re-run of "Pretty Little Liars" on television and gave him only a glance. Three were black, one latina and one Southeast Asian. At least one of them appeared to be pregnant.
They led him to a room lined with bookshelves, and Angelo figured it must have been the library of the old mansion. The dark walnut wood gave the room a dignified, warm atmosphere.
The bookshelves were mostly empty but for a few containing papers and magazines and several books. A ticking grandfather clock sat against the far wall, it's chimes suddenly interrupting the silence of the room.
"Sit here," they told Angelo, directing him to a straight-backed, upholstered chair.
A loveseat and another lounge chair was also in the room with coffee, canned soda, and cookies on a side table. Several teen magazines and National Geographics were sitting on another.
Melvin left the room, leaving Karen, who sat on the couch.
Leaning forward towards Angelo Karen spoke slowly, and softly, "Now that Melvin's gone, is there anything you want to tell me? You know, just between us, girl to girl? It's hard to talk about our problems with a man around, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said, agreeing but volunteering nothing further.
Karen saw it wasn't going to be easy getting the girl to talk, so she tried another approach.
"You're a very lovely girl," Karen commented. "You have a boyfriend?"
"No, momma won't let me go out with boys, yet."
"She's wise. You look so young for your age." Karen beckoned Angelo to join her on the couch, taking his hands in hers.
He looked down at his tiny wrists, next to her huskier forearms, realizing just how dainty he really was.
"Do you love your mom?" she asked Angelo as he took a seat beside her.
"Oh yes, I'd never do anything to hurt her."
"Well, she must be worried now. You were supposed to be home after school, right?"
"Yes." He started crying again.
"You must tell me, honey. What's wrong? Did someone hurt you? Why did you run away?"
"They were going to take me away from mommy," He finally blurted out, the words coming out in a desperate voice between tears.
"They? Who was? Did she do something wrong?"
"Miss Pentecost and the agency. No, momma would never hurt me."
"What agency?"
"The child welfare people. They don't understand. They want to take me from mommy."
"Why would they want to do that?"
Angelo's crying continued. He stopped long enough to blow his nose into a tissue that Karen handed him. She wrapped an arm about his shoulders and drew him tightly against her, and he found great comfort in her soft, large young body.
"Mommy's made me so happy. I don't want to leave her."
"Well, they must feel that your mom's not treating you right if they want to remove you from her home and away from her," Karen persisted. "Why would they do that?"
"Because . . . Be, because they um, they want me to be a . . . boy," he said, suddenly feeling he was wrong for hinting at his real gender.
"Oh?!?" Karen gasped, a questioning look crossing her brow. "Your mom or the agency?"
"CPS."
"Why in the world would they want you to become a boy?"
"Because I'm physically a boy. I was born a boy but I really am a girl." He began crying loudly, his sobs filling the room.
Karen held him tightly as he cried into her bosom. She slowly spoke in a soft, soothing voice, trying to comfort him, "Now, now. Let's have a good cry and then you can tell me all about it."
Within 15 minutes he had told Karen everything, his real male name, his foster mother's name and the reasons he fled his home city. "I can't live as a boy. I can't do it anymore. Don't you see? How can I be a boy? I'm so much a girl. I'm small, weak, emotional, and dainty like a girl, with no interest in being a boy."