I didn’t speak to Minnie for more than a year after we first met.
I didn’t know what to think about her. She always looked disheveled, her long, curly black hair unruly and spilling out of her hood. Her clothes were rumpled and torn, at times so badly I was concerned they would rip altogether. I always assumed she didn’t put any effort into it because she was trying to look like she didn’t care; it was trendy, recommended even, for those of us who weren’t blessed with looks or fashion sense to pretend like we didn’t care, even though the opinions of our peers meant more to us than we would ever admit.
But then one day I noticed the bruises on her face, and I realized … maybe she had bigger things on her mind.