July, Queens NY

Monica Gibler's cellphone rang. She knew exactly who it was. It had been ringing crazily all evening after she hung up on her parents while they yelled at her that she was wasting her life. Anna Jennings said, "Monica, are you sure that you don't want to get that?" Monica grumbled, angry from her parents' comments on her current job, and furiously took the cell phone out of her pocket and turned it off. Anna did not say another word.

Step 1: Take dish filled with oils from meatloaf.

Step 2: Wash it.

Step 3: Hand it to the next person.

Step 4: Dry it.

Step 4: Put it in the cupboard. It was just about as boring as a job could get, but somebody had to do it because all the dishwashers at St. Margot's Shelter for Battered Women and children had four dishwasher machines and that only held about held of how many dishes were used each night. Anna Jennings had just been laid off from her high position job at a publishing company. She was volunteering here in her spare time. Monica Gibler was a recent high school graduate whose parents wanted her to volunteer for a year before attempting to get a real job, to gain experience and build up some kind of a decent resume. Anna was in her mid-thirties and Monica was 18, but despite their age differences, they both had zero experience in this type of volunteer work. Because of it, most of their tasks involved chores. Because of Monica's mood (and a little exhaustion) they did their work in silence.

With unemployment rising, more and more women were coming in and the directors of the shelter were even thinking about turning the limited time that a woman could stay there from ninety days to sixty days, just to get in more women. But that would mean getting better job and housing services at the shelter and possibly cutting back on the therapy services. Tonight, a new girl would be coming in and she was an exception to the ninety-day rule, but no one knew why at this point except for the head directors.

The doorbell rang. Then there was a loud beep as someone punched a code into the security system. They did this to ensure that this person was a police officer or a woman as opposed to a stalking boyfriend. The code was correct. Everyone knew that this was the new girl. The noise made Monica jump, then curse under her breath regarding the upping in the volume of the alarm. Anna, ignoring Monica's mutter, told Monica to go open the door.

When Susan, the shelter's head director, said that a new "girl" would be coming in, that girl could be a pregnant nineteen year old girl or a sixty year-old woman with her twenty-five year old daughter and elementary school and nursery school aged grandchildren, so no one ever knew exactly what to expect. But Monica was shocked to see a sixteen year old girl standing in front of two police officers. Monica was less than thrilled to see someone around her age come in. The young children were sweeter. Susan rushed over to the new girl. She said, "Monica, this is Brigit Carmichael. Brigit, this is Monica Gibler. Monica, why don't you help Brigit bring her things to the woman's room?" Monica did as she was told as Susan went to discuss private matters with the police.

There were three main bedrooms in the shelter: one for girls, one for boys (although sons below the age of sixteen were usually not allowed in), and one for women, though many children came into the women's room because of nightmares. Monica expected Bridget to stay in the girl's room, but this wouldn't be true for Bridget because Bridget was the main, "attendant," as opposed to someone's daughter.

Monica led Bridget to the room, assigned her the bed in the left corner of the room and opened an empty drawer for Bridget to put her things in. The room had drab cream-colored walls and wooden furniture. It was not at all fancy, but the women who came had been through so much already, no one cared. All that Bridget had in her suitcase were a few t-shirts and jeans with a lot of notebooks. The notebooks were filled with writings. To the naked eye, the notebooks were obviously scribbled on. But what was drawn or written was impossible to tell unless the notebooks were opened. Monica knew that as a volunteer, her most important job of all was to be kind and considerate. So, Monica asked what was in the notebooks, to be friendly.

"Nothing, just a few doodles," said Bridget, slamming the drawer shut. Bridget jumped on the bed and began to write in the notebook.

"Um, is there anything I can help you with?" asked Monica.

"Yeah, where are the knives and pills around here?" Monica's grumpiness had taken away her patience and her energy, so being smart just wasn't something that she had the patience for.

"Well, the only knives are in the kitchen and they're very dull and all pills are kept by the shelter's nurse. Believe me, I've looked." Bridget look up in shock, not knowing at all what to say. After stuttering for a moment, Bridget said, "Wait. Aren't you a volunteer?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, I figured that if you're so desperate for that kind of stuff, you would be staying here."

There was probably no one in the world who had had a rougher, past twenty-four hours than Bridget at the time. Bridget realized that she would have to stay here for the time being, and was handling the situation rather well, in her case. Monica, on the other hand, was getting very annoyed and said another stupid thing, "So, if you're so interested in my life, why don't you tell me a little about yours?"

Monica had just tapped into something that Bridget wasn't ready for. Bridget tried to hold back the tears, but ended up shouting, "You bitch!" and ran toward the bathroom completely blubbery. She was probably still handing the situation well. Monica recognized the look on Bridget's face when Bridget ran to the bathroom. Monica did something she hadn't done in a really long time: she cried, too.