The mom at my current house sucks as much as the dad. The last time either of them remembered to feed the three of us was yesterday morning.
I am fucking hungry, to say the least.
But whatever, I’ll be gone soon enough, and who knows if the next house will be worse than Troy and Steve combined.
The school here has classrooms spread around to circle the main field. All I’m focused on is the corner, where there’s a blind spot between the fence and a building. No one would know someone is there unless they walk that way.
It’s perfect.
We enter the locker area between two classrooms, and Ms. Something takes my empty bag from me to put it on a free hook. She doesn’t wait for me before going into what I’m guessing is my temporary classroom—before I get moved, that is.
I turn my head in time to hear two boys laughing at a little girl rummaging through a bag. Her dark pigtails fall over her face as she turns away from them when one of the boys—the skinny one—says, “Hey, Isa.” The uglier one hits the skinny one’s shoulder, snickering like he can’t wait for the joke. “Say raspberry.”
They both burst into a fit of laughter, throwing their heads back as if it was the funniest thing they’ve ever said.
It’s not. How the hell is saying raspberry even funny?
The girl looks up at the two boys, bottom lip quivering and eyes glistening as she hugs herself.
Get a grip.
I roll my eyes and follow the vice principal into the classroom. Those types of bullies are boring and weak, always running their mouths, and wouldn’t know what a punch is until it hits them. Once it does, they either figure out how to throw one back and make it fun for me, or they cry and beg. Both outcomes seem good to me, especially when they end up doing both.
Other than finding out the classroom I share a building with is two grades below me, nothing eventful happens in class with my overenthusiastic teacher trying to convince everyone learning is fun.
As soon as the lunch bell rings, I grab my bag and beeline to the blind spot tucked away in the corner.
All the other students exit the rooms and head straight onto the field and playground, making this corner of paradise all mine. At this time of the day, the sun sits just right, so the place is only partly covered by shade. Splinters threaten my skin as I slide down the fence and onto the pavement. The sun sears my face, but I’d rather burn than be cold in the shadows. I’m not interested in feeling the sharp chill again.
Not after Steve put me in the basement.
My stomach sinks angrily when I open my backpack. I shouldn’t have gotten used to finding food in my bag rather than a pencil, book, and beer bottle cap. I expect nothing less from useless Steve.
Would Margaret call this an active imagination? Frick her, and frick Steve. She’d probably call the house, and Steve would tell her a heroic story about how he slaved away making my lunch, only for me to forget it. Then I’d hear that line I hate hearing everyone say about me.
Attention seeking.
They’re wrong. I don’t want their attention. There’s nothing good that can come from it.
Even the basement wouldn’t be all bad if it wasn’t so cold and quiet and I wasn’t so hungry. No one to yell at me? No one to hit me?
As I said, the less attention, the better.
It’s safe in there. But scary. And my lungs do that weird thing where they hurt, and it gets hard to breathe. I hate it.
Attention seeking.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Margaret.
Grabbing the used textbook and blunt pencil, I let my hands do all the talking while my brain continues flashing pictures I can’t keep up with. It’s so loud I wish it would shut up for two minutes.
Thick, angry strokes of graphite form shapes on the lined page. Circles and triangles, one right after the other, until a boy smiles with his razor-sharp teeth while the people around him scream.
My hand freezes as a chill falls over me—like the feeling of being watched. I snap up at the intruder with a glare, and the girl stiffens in shock. She looks just like a cartoon with her big brown eyes gawking at me… right before the familiar look I know all too well transforms it.
I’ve seen it on the cartoon mouse—I think his name is Jerry—when he sees Tom or when I come into class bruised and bloodied. Fear.
Her bottom lip trembles like it did when the two boys teased her in the locker area. She gulps as she looks between the field and me, then back at the field, like she’s trying to decide who’s the worst monster.
When she drops her head down, I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, but then she goes ahead and ruins my lunch by walking over to me.