Chances Are. Donna Hill

her formula when she was a baby, too.”

      “I didn’t know you had a daughter, Ms. Williams.”

      “Sure do. Almost eighteen years old. She’s away at college.”

      “Wow. How old does that make you?” Kisha quizzed.

      Dione put her hand on her hip. “Old enough not to have to answer. Now get moving all four of you.”

      “Bye, Ms. Williams,” they chimed as they brushed by her and down the stairs.

      Dione shook her head and smiled. “How old am I? Ha.”

      She continued up to the top floor, making certain that everyone was up and about, then headed back downstairs. It was her regular routine and she had yet to grow tired of it.

      Brenda was right, she thought, making her way down. This was hers, her baby. She’d given birth to Chances Are as sure as she’d given birth to Niyah. She loved and nurtured the girls and their children who came through her doors seeking help, the same way she’d finally found the love she’d needed.

      A shudder of remembrance ran through her every time she thought about those lonely, frightening, difficult days when she’d wandered the streets after school and slept on the trains at night, sneaking into the girls’ bathroom at school first thing in the morning to wash up and brush her hair. She’d stashed her suitcase in her locker and changed clothes every day before class started. On Fridays she’d take the suitcase out of the locker and wash her clothes at the laundry, bringing the clothes back on Monday. If anyone asked why she always had a suitcase, she told them she was staying with her cousin on the weekends.

      For nearly a month, she’d drifted through life not sure how, just by pure willpower. She could barely stay awake in class and constantly felt sick. She wasn’t sure how Ms. Langley, the guidance counselor, found out about her secret life, but she did and called her into her office.

      “Please close the door, Dione and have a seat,” Ms. Langley said.

      Reluctantly, Dione did as she was told, tried to smile and act nonchalant even as her stomach roiled and her heart bounced around in her chest.

      “Is there anything you want to tell me, Dione?”

      “No,” she muttered.

      “Then I’ll start.” Ms. Langley folded her hands on the desktop and leaned forward. “I think you’re in trouble, Dione, and so do your teachers. We’ve all noticed the difference in your appearance, your mood and your classwork. If you’ll talk to me about what’s wrong I can help you, or talk to your parents for you if you want.”

      Dione violently shook her head. “No!”

      “I want to help you, Dione.” She came around the desk and put her arm around Dione’s shoulders, and the dam burst.

      “Good morning, Dee.”

      Dione blinked, shutting out the images of the past. “Good morning, Ms. Betsy.”

      Betsy stepped out the door of her ground floor apartment. “I know you were up there checking on that lazy Gina,” she grumbled, wagging an accusing finger at Dione.

      Dione tried not to look guilty. “I was checking on everybody.”

      Betsy pursed her lips, then sucked her teeth. “You gotta get these young girls to stand on their own feet. Be responsible. What are they gonna do when they have to step out into the real world without you there to keep them under your wings?”

      A surge of heartsickness swept through her. “I don’t even want to think about it, Ms. Betsy. You know how hard it is for me to let them go. They’re just babies themselves. And—”

      “You’re not your mother, Dione. You’re gettin’ them ready for life, not throwing them out onto the street.” Betsy wagged her finger again. “You were just as young as these girls when—”

      “Yes. But I had you.”

      Betsy clucked her tongue and patted Dione’s arm. “I have work to do,” she fussed. “I know my early birds Denise and Kisha are waiting on me to take those babies so they can get to school.”

      Dione grinned. “You have a good day.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek before they parted, a ritual that began nearly eighteen years earlier, when Betsy was her landlady for the rooming house she and her infant daughter Niyah lived in.

      She remembered walking for what seemed like forever to find that building. Ms. Langley had given her the address after she’d spent a week in a shelter and refused to go back. She’d had to sleep on a cot with a mattress no thicker than the thin blanket that covered her. She heard things—noises in the night and the soft sobs of the young women around her. The second day she was there she’d awakened to find most of her clothes missing and five dollars out of her wallet. When she arrived at school with what she had on her back and stormed teary-eyed into Ms. Langley’s office, she swore she’d kill herself if she ever had to go back.

      Ms. Langley jumped up and shut the door. “Dione, what happened?” Her green eyes raced across Dione’s ravaged face and body to assess if there was any damage.

      “I’m not going back there, Ms. Langley. I won’t.”

      “Dione, you can’t live on the street. You’re going to have that baby in two months. You have to have someplace to live.”

      “I’ll live on the street if I have to. I did it before. But I can’t go back there, and you can’t make me go.”

      “Yes, I can, Dione. By law you’re still a minor. I should have had you placed in foster care instead of sending you there.”

      Dione looked at her defiantly. “You can’t send me anywhere I don’t want to go. Nobody can. I’m eighteen.” Her eyes filled and she felt her throat constrict. “Today’s my birthday.”

      It was Betsy who cared for Niyah while Dione returned to finish high school, and worked part-time at the local supermarket three days per week after giving birth to her baby girl. And Betsy always made sure that when Dione dragged herself home after her long days at school and then at work, there was a meal for her to eat.

      Humph, that building. It was an old, raggedy building that was hotter than Hades in the summer and could rival the Arctic in the winter, located smack in the middle of the notorious East New York section of Brooklyn, one of the most dangerous areas of the borough. But it was inexpensive. The only thing she could afford. The check she received from Public Assistance for her and Niyah and the small salary she earned at the supermarket just about made ends meet.

      One thing she was always grateful for, Ms. Betsy was real careful about choosing her six tenants, so Dione always felt safe, and Betsy seemed to have taken an instant liking to her and Niyah. She always went out of her way to make sure that they had enough to eat and extra blankets during the bitter winter nights.

      When Dione graduated from high school, it was Betsy who sat in the audience cheering for her, with Niyah squirming on her lap.

      Dione promised herself that if—no, when—she made a success of her life she would get Ms. Betsy out of that building and take care of her the same way she had taken care of her and Niyah. And Dione had kept her promise. She smiled as she walked toward the main office. Yes she had.

      When Dione entered the office, Brenda was busy pulling files that were scheduled for the monthly review.

      This was one of the aspects of the job that was a mixture of triumph and disappointment. When the girls’ progress files were brought before the staff for review, Dione always believed that the results, whatever they may be, were a direct reflection on the staff and the program, and ultimately on her.

      If the girls were unable to achieve the goals set out for them, Dione felt the staff should have done more, she should have done more. The comprehensive program that she’d developed for the residents relied on all of the pieces working together: continuing education,