I scowl at her. She’s clearly decided I’m less of a threat to her than Skinny and Ugly. Her worn sneakers scuff against the concrete pavement as she shuffles to a spot a few feet away from me. I stare at her, daring her to look me in the eye.
I don’t care if this was her spot before, because this is my spot now.
Until I leave, at least.
Minutes pass, and the tension radiates from her as she sits there, staring at the wall, still like a rock. So freaking still. Now, because of her, my hand doesn’t want to work. Nothing is going onto the page the way it should. The straight lines are curved, and the curved lines are straight.
I’m not feeling it, and it’s all her fault.
I’ve seen kittens less nervous than her. If I listen closely enough, I’m convinced she isn’t breathing, and the lack of sound coming from her is pissing me off.
It’s so quiet. What the hell is her problem?
“Loosen up,” I snap.
I’m not touching her, not even looking at her. She just needs to chill out.
With a squeak, she yanks her bright pink bag to her chest with shaky hands. It’s one of those nice backpacks with glitter and stuff on it. I bet she’s actually a fancy pants. Her parents probably packed her lunch. With her ridiculously wonky pigtails, I’m sure they put some stupid note in her bag, saying they love her and hope she has a good day.
She’s not like those annoying rich kids, though. None of those idiots would be caught dead wearing shoes with holes in them or a shirt that has to be at least three sizes too big.
Still, the kid in front of me doesn’t look like she’s ever known what it’s like to be locked in a basement or what it feels like to have a heated fork brand her skin. I bet she gets tucked into bed every night, like in all those books the teachers read.
Spoiled brat.
The sharp sound of a zipper opening snags my attention. I watch her small hands pause for a second before digging into her bag to grab a worn stuffed toy. It’s some character from a show I watched once—when I was at a house that had a TV.
Something about a mouse. Or a rat. Macky Mouse or something?
Whatever the thing is, it looks just like the little earrings she has on. It’s like she’s obsessed with the pest. Troy set up traps all around the house to kill them.
Her eyes dart up to me, and I look down like she isn’t there. Happy—or at least not stiff and staring at a wall—she places the toy next to her with her delicate little hands and arranges its legs to sit upright by itself.
When she pulls out her lunch box （a ripped plastic bag）， I can’t keep my attention hidden anymore.
What does she have? Is she one of those kids that gets a well-balanced diet with that triangle diagram thingy? Maybe she’s one of the lucky ones who gets leftover dinner for lunch. A kid at my other school got to bring takeout for lunch, and the ass would show it off to everyone in the class.
He stopped bringing them in once I started taking them from him.
Pigtails sets the plastic bag on the ground next to the toy. I wait with bated breath as she takes out the contents.
First, she pulls out two crackers—the ones that are drier than sand but do their job filling you up—and gives one to the toy as she nibbles on the other.
What the heck?
The thing isn’t real, and she’s giving her lunch to a toy? I knew she was spoiled, wasting food like that. If she isn’t going to eat it, then I will.
The mouse shrinks back when she catches me watching. But I don’t look away, tapping my pencil on the paper, waiting to see what else comes out of her lunch bag and if she’s going to waste that too.
I can already tell the next thing isn’t just a cracker. It’s too big to be. My mouth waters at all the possibilities of everything it could be.
My hunger doesn’t stop when she pulls out her pathetic-looking lunch. It’s just two thin slices of bread, partly squashed from sitting inside her bag without a container. Even though it doesn’t look like there might be anything inside, I’m still salivating.
I’m about to scream at her for being such a spoiled brat when she tears the bruised sandwich in two, squishing the butter through the rip. But my mouth slams shut when Pigtails holds her hand out, buttered bread offered to me as if I’m someone to be pitied.
“You shouldn’t share your food,” I bite out at the same time my stomach grumbles.
Her big eyes drop away from my face, and her bottom lip quivers again. Does this girl ever stop crying? Life sucks. Get over it. No use crying about it.
“Oh,” she says, voice so soft I almost miss it. “I thought—"