# Chapter 5: No More Homeless
Wednesday afternoon, the hallway outside the main office was packed. Students crowded around the bulletin board, pushing and jostling to see the showcase results posted on a single sheet of paper.
I hung back, letting others surge forward first. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my palms were sweating despite the air conditioning. Part of me didn't want to know—couldn't bear the thought of seeing my name absent from that list.
"Kenny!" Jasmine's voice cut through the crowd. She was jumping up and down, waving her arms. "You're in! You made it!"
The crowd parted slightly, and I caught a glimpse of the list. There, halfway down:
**KENNY ROGERS - Solo Vocal Performance - "Still Here"**
Next to it: **FEATURED ACT**
My knees almost gave out.
"I told you!" Marcus appeared beside Jasmine, grinning. "Featured act, dude. That means you're closing out one of the main sections. That's huge!"
Coco and Mary pushed through the crowd, both beaming.
"We're celebrating," Coco announced. "Tonight. Karaoke. No arguments."
"I don't know if—" I started.
"Not optional," Mary interrupted. "You just became the first Music and Dance Club member to get a featured spot in three years. We're celebrating whether you like it or not."
Before I could protest further, Coco linked her arm through mine. "Come on. We're going to Star Voice Karaoke downtown. My treat."
"I can't let you pay for—"
"You can and you will," she said firmly. "Think of it as a club president's prerogative. Besides, we need to practice being in public together before Club Day next week."
I'd forgotten about Club Day—the annual event where every school club had to perform or present something to demonstrate their value. Clubs that didn't meet a certain score from the student body could be shut down by the administration to free up resources.
"What are we doing for Club Day?" I asked.
Coco and Mary exchanged glances.
"We were hoping," Mary said slowly, "that you might debut a new song. Something that really represents what the Music and Dance Club is about."
"You want me to write a new song in a week?"
"You wrote 'Still Here' in like, what, a month while living..." Coco trailed off, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
"While living where?" I asked carefully.
"With your grandmother, right?" she said. "Before she passed?"
I'd never actually told them where I lived. They'd just assumed, and I'd never corrected them.
"Yeah," I lied. "Something like that."
Star Voice Karaoke was a three-story building in downtown, neon signs flickering in multiple languages. The lobby smelled like fried food and artificial cherry air freshener. Coco paid for a two-hour room, and we piled into a small space with a screen, microphones, and leather couches that had seen better days.
"Okay, rules!" Coco announced, pulling up the song selection menu. "Everyone has to sing at least two songs. No backing out. This is a judgment-free zone."
"Except we're definitely judging," Mary added with a smirk.
For the next two hours, I forgot about bridges and cold concrete and torn money. Coco sang J-pop ballads with surprising emotional depth. Mary revealed a secret love for 90s rock and absolutely destroyed a Nirvana cover. Jasmine and Marcus showed up halfway through and performed an embarrassingly earnest duet of "A Whole New World."
When my turn came, I picked something safe—"Wonderwall" by Oasis. Everyone sang along, off-key and laughing, and for those few minutes, I felt like a normal teenager doing normal teenager things.
"Speech!" Coco demanded when the song ended. "The featured performer must give a speech!"
"That's not a rule," I protested.
"It is now!"
I stood up, microphone in hand, suddenly self-conscious. They were all looking at me expectantly—these people who'd welcomed me, believed in me, treated me like I mattered.
"I just want to say..." I cleared my throat. "Thank you. For the club, for this, for believing I could do it. You guys gave me something I didn't have before."
"What's that?" Jasmine asked.
"A reason to keep going," I said honestly.
The room went quiet for a moment. Then Coco raised her soda can in a toast.
"To the Music and Dance Club," she said. "And to Kenny, who's going to save our asses at Club Day."
"To Kenny!" everyone chorused.
We clinked our drinks together, and I felt something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest—something that felt suspiciously like hope.
The next morning, I woke up under the bridge with a purpose.
I counted my money carefully: two hundred and forty-three dollars. It was everything I'd saved from three months of street performances, plus the emergency fund I'd been hoarding for disasters.
It was enough.
I packed up my belongings—blanket, clothes, toiletries, guitar—and made my way to the real estate office I'd passed a dozen times on my way to school. The one with faded signs in the window advertising cheap rentals.
The agent was a tired-looking woman in her fifties who barely looked up when I walked in.
"Help you?" she asked.
"I need an apartment," I said. "The cheapest one you have."
She finally looked at me, taking in my worn backpack and too-big clothes. "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," I lied smoothly. "I have money."
I pulled out my cash and set it on the counter. Her expression shifted slightly.
"I have one unit available," she said slowly. "Studio apartment, fourth floor walk-up, no elevator. The building's old, plumbing's temperamental, and your neighbors are loud. But it's two hundred a month plus a forty-dollar deposit. First and last month upfront."
I did the math quickly. That would leave me with three dollars.
"I'll take it."
The apartment was exactly as advertised—small, rundown, and barely functional. The single room was maybe ten feet by twelve feet, with a tiny kitchenette in one corner and a bathroom that might have been modern in 1970. The walls were water-stained, the floor was cracked linoleum, and the windows didn't close all the way.
But it had a roof. And a door that locked. And running water that came out hot if you waited long enough.
It was mine.
I stood in the middle of the empty room, my few possessions in a pile by the door, and felt tears prick my eyes. Two months ago, I'd been sleeping on concrete, bathing in a river, wondering if I'd survive the winter. Now I had walls. I had shelter. I had a place to exist without fear of being moved along by police or harassed by other street kids.
The first thing I did was take a shower. A real shower, with soap I bought from the convenience store downstairs, water as hot as I could stand it. I scrubbed away months of grime and fear, watched it spiral down the drain, and when I finally stepped out, I felt human again.
The second thing I did was go to the thrift store.
With my last three dollars, I bought a used futon mattress (five dollars, but the clerk took pity and gave me a discount), a set of sheets with cartoon characters on them (free, because they were in the donation bin), and a small pot for cooking (one dollar). I spent my last two dollars on instant ramen and rice from the convenience store.
That night, I lay on my futon mattress in my tiny apartment, eating instant ramen I'd cooked myself on the little hot plate I'd found in the apartment, and cried tears of relief.
I wasn't homeless anymore.
Friday morning, I woke up in my apartment for the second time and the reality hit me: I had no money. Zero. The rent was paid for two months, but I had nothing for food, nothing for emergencies, nothing for the hundred small expenses that came with existing.
I'd have to perform this weekend. No choice.
But first, I had a song to write.
I pulled out my notebook and guitar, sat cross-legged on my futon, and began to work. The lyrics came fast, fueled by the raw emotion of the last forty-eight hours:
*"I used to sleep where the bridge meets the sky,*
*Where the concrete was cold and the stars asked me why,*
*Why I kept singing when no one would hear,*
*Why I kept fighting when hope disappeared.*
*But I found four walls and a door that's my own,*
*I found running water and a place I call home,*
*No more counting coins in the dead of the night,*
*No more wondering if I'll survive 'til daylight.*
*This is my song, no more homeless,*
*This is my life, I'm done with the darkness,*
*I'm standing tall where I used to fall down,*
*This is my song, and I'm not backing down."*
The verses poured out, each one capturing a different piece of the journey—the river baths, the rotten eggs, the tree root toothbrushes, the family that abandoned me. The bridge soared with defiance:
*"They said I was cursed, they said I was lost,*
*They tore up my future and counted the cost,*
*But I built my life from the scraps they threw away,*
*And now I'm singing louder than yesterday."*
By the time I finished, the sun was setting, and I had a complete song. Raw, honest, maybe too honest—but it was real. And if Coco wanted something that represented what the Music and Dance Club was about, this was it.
Survival. Resilience. The refusal to stay down.
I recorded a rough version on my phone, then practiced it until my fingers ached and my voice was hoarse.
This song was going to save the club.
I could feel it.
Monday morning arrived with a nervous energy that permeated the entire school. Club Day banners hung in the hallways, and students wore their club t-shirts and colors proudly. The gymnasium had been transformed into a performance space, with a stage at one end and rows of chairs for the student body.
Every club would perform or present something. The students would score each presentation on a scale of 1-10, and clubs that averaged below a 6 would be reviewed by the administration for potential shutdown.
The Music and Dance Club was scheduled for the afternoon session, which meant hours of watching other clubs go first. The Drama Club performed a scene from a play. The Robotics Club demonstrated their competition robot. The Photography Club showed a slideshow set to music.
Some presentations were impressive. Others were painfully awkward. But all of them had one thing in common: they were safe, predictable, designed to appeal to the widest audience possible.
"We're up next," Coco whispered, gripping my arm. "You ready?"
I nodded, though my stomach was churning. My guitar was already tuned, the lyrics burned into my memory from hours of practice.
"Students of Riverside High," Principal Davidson announced, "please welcome the Music and Dance Club."
We walked onto the stage—Coco, Mary, and me. The gymnasium fell silent, hundreds of eyes tracking our movement.
Coco stepped up to the microphone first. "Thank you for having us today. The Music and Dance Club has been a part of Riverside for over twenty years, providing a space for students to explore their artistic passions. Today, we want to show you why this club matters. Why art matters. Why your voice—whatever form it takes—deserves to be heard."
She stepped back, and I took her place at the center microphone. My hands were shaking as I adjusted the guitar strap.
"This is an original song," I said, my voice echoing through the gym. "It's called 'No More Homeless.'"
A murmur rippled through the audience. I saw confused faces, curious faces, some that looked almost uncomfortable with the title alone.
Good. I wanted them uncomfortable. I wanted them to feel something real.
I started playing.
The opening chords were soft, almost fragile, like the first morning I'd woken up in my apartment. Then I began to sing:
*"I used to sleep where the bridge meets the sky,*
*Where the concrete was cold and the stars asked me why,*
*Why I kept singing when no one would hear,*
*Why I kept fighting when hope disappeared."*
The gymnasium was completely silent now. I could feel every eye on me, every ear listening.
*"But I found four walls and a door that's my own,*
*I found running water and a place I call home,*
*No more counting coins in the dead of the night,*
*No more wondering if I'll survive 'til daylight."*
The chorus hit, and I let my voice rise, strong and clear:
*"This is my song, no more homeless,*
*This is my life, I'm done with the darkness,*
*I'm standing tall where I used to fall down,*
*This is my song, and I'm not backing down."*
I saw students leaning forward in their seats. Some had tears in their eyes. Others looked shocked, like they'd never considered that someone their age could experience homelessness.
The second verse cut deeper:
*"I bathed in rivers when soap was too much,*
*I brushed with tree roots, survived on luck,*
*My family said I was cursed, that I caused their pain,*
*But I'm still standing here, singing through the rain."*
The bridge was where I let everything pour out—the anger, the grief, the determination:
*"They said I was cursed, they said I was lost,*
*They tore up my future and counted the cost,*
*But I built my life from the scraps they threw away,*
*And now I'm singing louder than yesterday."*
The final chorus was triumphant, defiant:
*"This is my song, no more homeless,*
*This is my life, I'm done with the darkness,*
*I'm standing tall where I used to fall down,*
*This is my song, and I'm not backing down."*
I let the last note ring out, sustaining it until it faded into complete silence.
For three long seconds, no one moved.
Then the gymnasium erupted.
Students were on their feet, applause thundering through the space. I saw people crying openly, others cheering, some just standing there with their hands over their mouths in shock.
Principal Davidson was standing too, applauding slowly, his expression unreadable.
I stepped back from the microphone, my legs trembling. Coco and Mary rushed to my sides, both grinning wildly.
"Holy shit," Mary whispered. "We just won."
She was right.
When the scores were tallied an hour later, the Music and Dance Club had received a 9.2 out of 10—the highest score of the day.
We weren't just saved. We were celebrated.
After Club Day, everything changed.
Students I'd never spoken to approached me in the hallways, some asking about the song, others just wanting to say they'd been moved by it. A few even admitted they'd dealt with housing insecurity themselves, thanking me for making them feel less alone.
Jasmine found me at my locker between classes.
"That song," she said quietly. "Was it... were you actually homeless?"
I could have lied. Should have lied. But the song had already told the truth.
"Yeah," I said. "I was."
"For how long?"
"Two months. But I'm not anymore. I have an apartment now."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. "Does anyone else know?"
"Just you. And now Coco and Mary, probably. The song kind of gave it away."
"Kenny..." She touched my arm gently. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I didn't want to be treated differently. I didn't want people to see me as a charity case or feel sorry for me." I closed my locker. "I just wanted to be a normal student with a normal life."
"You're not normal though," she said with a small smile. "You're extraordinary. And I'm really glad you're okay now."
"Me too," I said honestly.
That night, in my tiny apartment, I lay on my futon mattress and stared at the water-stained ceiling. My phone buzzed with messages from Coco and Mary, from Marcus, from classmates I barely knew, all congratulating me on the performance.
But the one that mattered most was from an unknown number:
*This is Mr. Takahashi from the auditions. I was in the audience today for Club Day. That song was powerful. Call me when you're ready to take the next step. You have a real future in this industry.*
I saved his number and set my phone aside.
Two months ago, I'd been sleeping under a bridge, wondering if I'd survive.
Now I had an apartment, a club, friends, and a talent scout interested in my future.
I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I was beginning to thrive.
And for the first time in my life, I believed that maybe—just maybe—I deserved it.
*End of Chapter 5*