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ISBN: 978-1-9278995-3-3
A N D I
I
t’s nearing midnight as I slowly walk up the driveway to my house. I stop at the back door and fish in my purse for my keys. Grandma should be passed out by now, I think.
I can’t see a light in the kitchen or in the living room. I insert my key in the lock and turn it, being careful not to rattle the keys. Thank God I remembered to drizzle vegetable oil on the creaky hinge of the back door last week. Thanks to my efforts, it opens without a sound. I tiptoe up the stairs, being careful to skip the wonky third step from the bottom, and slink into the house. I feel like a prowler on the loose looking for stuff to steal. The only thing I want though, is to steal into my room without running into my grandmother.
As I walk by the living room, I can smell the vomit. Wonderful. The old cow must have puked and not bothered to clean it up. There is no way I’m going anywhere near that mess tonight. There’ll probably be hell to pay for me tomorrow morning about it, but tonight I’m throwing caution to the wind and going to bed.
I take off my coat, go to the bathroom to give myself a quick sponge bath so I won’t smell too gross, and brush my teeth. I tiptoe to my room and fall into bed. I fall asleep thinking at least Grandma is out cold for the night. I don’t smell any cigarette burning so I don’t have to worry she’ll fall asleep with a lit cigarette and burn down the house.
I wake up early the next morning. The sun is just beginning to creep over the horizon. With any luck, I can get out of the house while my grandmother is still sleeping off last night’s bender. I throw on some clothes, brush out my shaggy mop of hair, and go into the kitchen. Several days’ worth of dishes sit in the sink, crusting over. From the look of it, my grandmother fried—and burned—herself some potatoes for supper last night. She’s tossed the heavy black pan in the sink on top of a drinking glass, breaking it. Really? Now I have to clean up broken glass?
I open the cabinet door beside the sink to get myself a bowl for some cereal. I’ll clean up after eating. As I open the fridge to take out some milk, I accidentally dislodge a big metal bowl full of salad and it falls to the floor with a huge clang. Shit! If Grandma isn’t awake now, she will be. I quickly start to pick up the mess, expecting her to round the corner any second, yelling and berating me for waking her up. The mess cleared away, I balance the salad bowl in the sink on top of all the other crap in there and grab a box of cereal.
Where is Grandma? I’d thought by now she’d have come in, hollering. Odd. I decide to sneak a look around the corner into the living room to see what the old bat is up to. I peek, plugging my nose at the vomit-rocious odour wafting out of the living room.
Grandma’s lying on her back on the couch. Vomit is stuck to her chin and running down her neck. She’s got one arm up over her head and the other dangling off the couch, her fingers grazing the blue and gold carpet. I drift a little closer. She doesn’t seem to be moving at all. I don’t hear her snoring, either. I move in even closer for a better look.
What the hell? Is she unconscious? “Grandma? You okay?” I stage whisper.
Nothing. No response. Now that I’m this close, I can see her chest isn’t rising and falling. She isn’t breathing. I edge a little closer and put two fingers on her neck to feel for a pulse, as I’d learned from the first aid course I took last summer. She has no pulse, and her skin feels cold. She’s dead. She choked to death on her own vomit. A thought occurs to me that makes my heart skip a beat: she was probably already dead last night! I’ve spent the night in a house with a corpse! Someday, in the far, far off future, this will make a fantastic story. Not today, though. I back away, almost stumbling over the coffee table. I can’t help the hysterical giggle that escapes my throat, in spite of the awful situation I’m in.
“The wicked witch is dead.”
What the hell should I do? I spend almost an hour pacing around the house, trying to come up with a plan. If I call for emergency help and they find me here, suddenly an orphan, I’ll end up back in foster care. Once was enough, thank you very much. I’d landed in a foster home after Mom died. Social Services had made a home visit to assess how we were coping; they had discovered Grandma was hitting the bottle heavily, and I was removed from the home so Grandma could concentrate on getting help for her drinking problem. I spent six months in a home with a kid who ate paper, roomed with another who kept me up all night with screaming nightmares, and an older boy who… I give myself a shake. What the hell am I doing? Standing here reminiscing about a crappy time in my life while standing over my dead grandmother’s body? I need to get a grip.
I head into the kitchen, get myself a cold glass of water, and take a huge gulp. I need a plan. I’ll be better off living on my own until I become an adult. Finding a foster home will no longer be an issue. I just need a place to live. I don’t have any close friends, so I can’t crash at anyone’s house. I have kept everyone at bay to keep them from getting to know me better and finding out I’m living with an alcoholic. I don’t want to live on the streets, either. I’ve seen enough After School Specials about life on the streets and I want no part of selling myself for sex and then handing over money to some abusive pimp. What I need is a warm, dry place indoors.
Then it hits me. They opened a new mall downtown three or four years ago. It’s so huge and fancy it’s considered a tourist attraction. It will be open seven days a week and on holidays—it’s perfect! Now that I’ve decided where I will live, it’s a simple thing to pack a duffel bag. My bag packed and my plan hatched, I leave the house. I don’t lock the back door, and I don’t look back.
I go to the bank and withdraw almost all my savings, which are pathetically small. It will have to do for a start. I curse myself for steadily spending my babysitting earnings on books, snacks, and bus tickets. I get a raised eyebrow from the teller when I all but empty my account, but she doesn’t comment. All that is left to do is to call 911 from a payphone and head off to my new home: the Eaton Centre.
A N D I
I
couldn’t even pick one single pocket today. I reach up and pull my ponytail tighter, yanking on it hard in my frustration. I’m sitting on the floor in a corner of The World’s Biggest Bookstore. The bookstore opened five months ago and is conveniently located across from the Eaton Centre. World’s Biggest puts all other bookstores I’ve visited to shame. It’s absolutely huge, with two floors and many nooks and corners for me to hang out in, away from the prying eyes of people wondering what I’m doing there for so many hours, day after day.
I back myself more firmly into the corner I’m sitting in and reach up again to fiddle with my ponytail. I wind the end of it tightly around my finger. It’s been at least six months since I had my hair cut. I know if I looked in a mirror right now, I’d see my blond roots starting to show through this mousy, brown hair colour I dyed my hair with a month ago. I chose the most nondescript, blend-into-the-walls hair colour I could find.
I’ve managed to hide in plain sight for two months since I left home. I’m doing a pretty good job so far at not being found. They’re looking for a golden-haired teen with short hair, not a teen with mousy-brown hair that falls almost to her shoulders. There’s not much I can do to disguise my height and weight, but at least I blend in with the majority, being blandly average in stature and body type. The only thing that might distinguish me are my bright blue eyes. My grade ten English teacher, Miss Green, once described them as “breathtakingly azure.” She was big on padding our vocabularies, introducing several new words in every class.
I breathe in deeply. God, I love the smell of a bookstore! I can’t get enough of taking in the aroma of all those new books. Someone wanders by, and I can smell the coffee they’re sipping on. My stomach lets out a huge gurgle. I am so hungry! The people who lecture about eating a good breakfast fail to mention eating a good lunch and a good dinner are also very good ways to ward off starvation. I haven’t eaten anything since last night. My last two quarters went toward jamming my stuff in a locker on the first floor. If I had known I wouldn’t be eating today as a result, I would have made better use of those quarters and picked up something from McDonald’s! All I’ve had is water—too bad it doesn’t have nutritional value, I’d be set if it did.
Now, I’m forced into scavenging leftover food off people’s trays in the food court. Security has been unusually tight today, making approaching people for spare coins an impossibility. It’s a delicate operation at the best of times, but when a burly, takes-his-job-WAY-too-seriously security guard decides to make the food court his new home for a large portion of the day, it shuts down that avenue completely. I can’t run the risk of drawing security attention to myself, not if I want to continue making the mall my “home.” Begging is a risky proposition in any case because people have this disconcerting tendency of looking at me a little too intently when I approach them with some story about why I need extra change.
I haven’t dared to go back to the variety store I lifted several chocolate bars from yesterday. I strolled by earlier this evening, and that same keenly observant clerk was on shift again.
I’ve been pickpocketing as infrequently as possible, waiting for the best possible opportunities with the least chance of being caught. One wrong move, the whole thing goes sideways, and I end up in juvenile detention. I like my life outside a foster home too much to risk stealing in anything less than ideal circumstances. Unfortunately, there haven’t been many prime chances in the last several days to pickpocket undetected. The mall has been a dead zone. I did have an opportunity last week when the Blue Jays were in town, but I chickened out because the crowds weren’t as thick as I like them. Not as many people going to the games, I guess. Nobody wants to go and watch the Jays lose again. I wrongly figured I’d have another opportunity.
I sit up and give myself a stern talking-to. “Face it, Andi, even though life here sucks, it’s one step better than being in foster care. Passing out and being found by security is not an option. Yeah, it’s gross to eat food that has been touched or been near someone else’s mouth, but there’s nothing stopping you from tearing off the section of burger, or whatever, that has bite marks on it.” Motivational speaker I am not, but it’s getting late and I can’t put this off any longer. The mall is going to close in an hour. I stand up and head out of the bookstore.
I drag my feet as I cross the road and walk toward the mall, in the direction of the food court. There are always teenagers there, killing time, socializing, nibbling on some fast food they bought. My mouth is dry and my heart is racing. I feel shaky. That security guard’s shift has got to be over by now! A couple of bites and sips of something, anything, will tide me over until morning when I can load up on chocolate bars from the variety store. There’ll be a different cashier at the store then for sure. The thought of being caught passed out somewhere and being tossed into some creepy foster home spurs me on. That, and the smell of fried food from the food court.
As I round the corner, the food court comes into view, and I spot a group of teens sitting on the tables, feet on the seats, talking and laughing. A cursory glance around the food court tells me that burly security guard’s shift is over. It looks like the teens are done eating, but now I’ve got to wait until they leave, hoping they don’t bother disposing of their garbage.
I sink into a chair several tables away from the boisterous group. They don’t look ready to leave, not for a while, anyway. I don’t know how much longer I can wait. I drum my fingers on the table and survey the group. The two girls are wearing expensive designer jeans, and their four male friends are all outfitted in those fancy shirts with the alligator on the front pocket. Must be nice to order a bunch of food without thinking twice about the cost! They don’t know how good they have it. I cross my arms tightly across my chest as if that will somehow stop the envy I feel creeping over me. A tear rolls unexpectedly down my cheek, and I wipe it away roughly, angrily. I force down the self pity and sadness threatening to overwhelm and consume me and instead summon up anger for the over-indulged teens.
Okay, I can breathe again. A little bit of righteous anger is just the fuel I need to push through and get this scavenging thing done tonight. I sniff and wrinkle my nose in distaste as I continue to observe the crew. The girls seem bored, alternatively focusing on the guys while looking around the food court. My stomach growls again. I highly doubt they’ll miss me oh-so-casually sauntering over and swiping a burger off one of their trays. What now? A half-baked idea comes to me. Will they buy it if I walk over, pretending to be cleaning staff, and take their tray?
I scan the rest of the food court. There’s one guy, alone at a table, nursing a can of Coke. He’s got a tray in front of him with what looks like one of those small coleslaw containers from the chicken place, and a large box that probably now only contains chicken bones. Maybe there are still fries left in the large fry container I also see on his tray. He’s dressed nicely in a crisp pair of jeans, clean white T-shirt under a blue plaid button-down, long-sleeved shirt. There’s no way a clean cut guy like that is going to just leave a tray of food. He’s too neat for that. I feel like he’ll do the responsible thing and dispose of his garbage. With his glasses and neatly combed short, dark hair, he looks too intelligent to fall for my “I’m staff cleaning up garbage” routine. Crap. If he doesn’t eat the fries and throws them away, am I going to want to stick my hand in the trash and pull them out? I shake my head in annoyance. It’s not a matter of want, it’s a matter of need.
I’m trying to remember who that teacher was who was always fond of saying, “desperate times call for desperate measures,” when, as one, the teens suddenly get up. Thank God. I don’t waste any time making my way over to their table. As I thought, they left their trays behind. With one furtive glance around to make sure I’m not being watched, I quickly scoop up two half-eaten burgers, and a half-finished drink.
I retreat to my table with the food. At this point, I don’t waste time ripping away the part of the burgers with the bite marks; I stuff one burger in, chew rapidly, then cram the second one in. I use my sleeve to give a cursory wipe to the straw on the drink, and am taking a long, luxurious sip when that nicely dressed guy comes by my table. He puts his fry container down on my table and heads off briskly toward the exit.
I stand up so quickly, I bang my thighs on the table. “Hey!” I shout at his rapidly retreating form. He doesn’t slow down, or look back. “Hey!” I yell again, a bit louder, to no avail. I slowly sit back down. That was completely weird. He must have seen me take those burgers. Damn! He’s probably grossed out and feeling so sorry for me he’s been rendered incapable of speech.
The two half burgers, drink, and fries are more than enough to keep me going until tomorrow. As I’m crumpling up the papers the burgers were wrapped in, I can’t stop the anguished groan that escapes me. Yeah, I’ve eaten, but a full stomach tonight isn’t magically going to help me tomorrow. I get out of my chair and slowly plod out of the food court. I stop at the locker I stashed my stuff in, open it, get out my duffel, and slam the locker shut. I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and head toward Eaton’s, where I’ve found a secluded, out-of-the-way place to sleep.
Too bad the Blue Jays are still out of town. I won’t be able to pickpocket tomorrow, either. I’ll have to get by with shoplifting. It’s chancy, but I don’t see that I have any choice.
I narrowly miss walking into a pole, I’m thinking so hard. I sigh. Maybe I’ll go to Dominion tomorrow instead of the variety store. Dominion is several blocks away from the mall, but it’s worth the walk to get food more nutritious than chocolate bars.
It takes me a long time to fall asleep. I can’t stop wondering about that guy who gave me his fries. I toss and turn as I berate myself for not being more vigilant when I took the leftovers. I can be so stupid sometimes. I knew he was there but when it came to the crunch, I guess I just lost my head in my eagerness to eat, and I completely forgot to be stealthier and make sure he wasn’t watching. Well, it serves me right if I’m caught because of this stupid mistake. I fall asleep with the unsettling thought that the guy didn’t speak, not because of any disgust or pity for me, but because he was keen to get to the police station to report me.
N O A H
“W
hat am I going to do?” I ponder as I exit the subway, heading for the new mega bookstore located across the street from the Eaton Centre. The strap of my book bag digs uncomfortably into my shoulder as I approach the store. Spending time in a bookstore has always been one of my favourite things to do; this multilevel bookstore makes it even easier to wile away hours and hours in the scientific or medical sections. There must be thousands of books in there, just waiting for me to discover them.
Today, however, I don’t feel like browsing. I need a quiet place to think. I told my dad I was headed to the bookstore to check out the new science magazines on sale this week. Dad has no issues with me spending time downtown. He’s all for me getting out there and exploring the world on my own. As long as I’m home for my ten p.m. curfew, he’s happy.
My bag is loaded down with my math and science textbooks; I also have my binder, pencil case, and plenty of lined paper in there too. I want to be a doctor one day, and getting good grades is the first step in that direction. I did have every intention of doing my homework, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to sit anywhere to actually begin. I’m too restless. Instead, I’m leafing through a science magazine but not seeing anything at all. Thoughts are careening around inside my brain, zinging in one direction, abruptly changing course, and heading off another way.
I heave a sigh so huge it can probably be heard on the second floor of the bookstore as I remember my run-in with Brandon after school on Friday. The sound of that name reverberating in my head, and the image that accompanies it, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I had almost made it out of the building without encountering him and his friends. Klutz that I am, in trying to force out my history text where it was jammed inside my locker, I dropped it, along with my binder and open pencil case on the floor. There was nothing to do but to pick everything up, and I was just cramming my liquid paper back into my pencil case when the shadows of Brandon and his Neanderthal buddies loomed over me.
Brandon is your stereotypical football jock: all brawn, no brains. He must have really given his two brain cells a workout when he came out with what he undoubtedly thought was an original way to mock my speech impediment. I can still hear that stupid snicker of his as he asked me if I “n-n-needed s-s-some h-help.” I had a comeback ready for them, something I’d been practicing in the mirror every night last week, but I froze. I knew I’d stutter delivering my witty one-liner, because in spite of myself, I was agitated.
I run my fingers through my hair with a groan, thinking how completely ridiculous I must have looked just standing there, doing nothing, saying nothing. My quiet, desperate hope that my statue impression would bore them was firmly smashed when they made a circle around me, very effectively blocking me in. I don’t remember exactly what they said then, only that it had something to do with me ignoring them. What I do remember is the feel of Brandon’s spit burning like miniscule drops of acid on my face, as he made some snarky comment about expecting me to answer him.
My bag is starting to feel really heavy, and I slide it off my shoulder, resting it on the floor. I rub absently at my face where I swear I can still feel Brandon’s slobber. I don’t know what would have happened next if they hadn’t been distracted by Brandon’s girlfriend, Tiffany, coming by and demanding they get cigarettes from Brandon’s older brother. They all left then, lumbering down the hall without so much as a backwards glance.
I sigh. I really should sit somewhere and start on my homework. A glance at my watch tells me the mall is going to close in a few hours. The food court seems as good a place as any to find a table and food. I have about twenty-five dollars in my wallet. I earned it mowing lawns for the seniors in our neighbourhood.
I leave the bookstore, cross the street, and amble over to the food court. I buy a chicken value meal with four chicken drumsticks, a large fry, coleslaw, and a can of Coke. I eat my fill of the chicken and all of the coleslaw. There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat all those fries. I definitely shouldn’t have ordered them. My eyes were bigger than my stomach, as Mom would say. I can just picture her, tucking her hair behind her ear, giving me one of her signature looks, as she reminds me to take less than I think I’ll eat, keeping in mind I can always have a little more if I’m that hungry.
It took some doing on my part to remain unaffected by Mom’s look on Friday, when she asked me how my day at school was, if anyone had bothered me. I had falsely reassured her I was fine, not telling her about Brandon. She had been so excited to see me leave junior high and start high school. She was positive a change of scenery and a fresh start with new kids was going to spell the start of a new “Noah won’t be bullied anymore” era. “High schoolers are mature,” she had said. “They’ll also be too self-involved to bother you,” she had further asserted. I haven’t had the heart to burst her bubble about the kids not bullying me anymore.
Junior high had been a difficult time for me. I bore the brunt of a lot of taunting and teasing, especially in grade seven before I met my best friend, Alex. I’d made the mistake of confiding in Mom a few times and had to do a lot of fast talking to convince her and Dad I could deal with it on my own. I knew if they went to my school it would just make things worse. Before that, in elementary school, there’d been this kid, Darryl, who pushed me around. Dad had gone to my elementary school and Darryl and his parents had been called in for a discussion in the principal’s office. After that, Darryl just became sneakier in his bullying. He added “tattletale” to the long list of names he called me. I never told Mom and Dad the bullying continued.
I give myself a mental shake. I have to get on with my algebra assignment. Brandon and his friends are going to be there tomorrow, and I’ll just have to suck it up, like I always do. I’ll just make sure I’m one of the last to leave my final class at the end of the day, in the company of a teacher. Or, I’ll time everything so I can high-tail it out of school before the crowds enter the halls. If Alex is with me, he’ll have a quick, witty response ready to deflect any negative attention from me.
I open my math book and force myself to turn to the correct page and begin question one. A few hours later my watch beeps, reminding me time is almost up. I’d set it to go off a half hour before the mall closes, so I would have time to pack up and exit. There are still twenty-five minutes to spare until they start herding us out and locking up the mall. I close my books, stash them in my bag, and take a minute to clean off my glasses. Damn things are always getting smudged. I’ve just put my glasses back on and taken another drink when I notice a girl slouched in a chair, several tables away from me.
She’s wearing a threadbare, faded red sweatshirt, and bleached jeans with holes in the knees. Her brown hair is tied up in a messy ponytail. What catches my attention though, is the look of absolute disgust, coupled with the most desperate envy, on her face. I can see she is very thin, and she’s tapping her hands on the table. She’s watching a rowdy group of teens three tables away from her.
A few minutes later, the group of teens get up as a unit and exit. The girl immediately gets up, hurries over to the tables the teens vacated, and with one quick look around, picks up the leftover food and drink on one of the trays the group left behind, and goes back to her table. I know what is going to happen now, but I am still surprised to see how voraciously and quickly she devours the half-eaten burgers and starts on the drink.
She’s in some kind of desperate situation. Maybe she’s a runaway. I wonder if the teens had disposed of the food they couldn’t eat, if she would have gone into the trash can to pick it out. As I’m musing, I notice my fry container. I only had about two. At once, I know what to do. I stand, take one last fortifying sip of Coke, and pick up my bag and the fries. On my way to the exit, I pause briefly by her table and leave the fries there.
I know it looks peculiar, to just put fries on her table and walk away, but I don’t even know how to start a conversation with her. She’s probably embarrassed I saw her scavenging food. It’s better I just leave her the food and spare her trying to explain things. As I walk to the subway I wonder: what kind of a situation is she in if she’s scavenging leftover food off of strangers’ trays?
A N D I
M
y watch alarm beeps, waking me well before the sun is up. I’d love to just lie here and relax a bit more, but my growling stomach and pleading bladder won’t let me. I sit up with a groan. The night security guard, a tall, slim, older gentleman, will be making his rounds soon. I’ve named him Ernest because of the sombre expression I always see on his face. I figure he’s very close to retirement and is mindlessly putting in his time. He clearly doesn’t expect to find anybody here and hasn’t yet spotted me. I think that’s because I never actually lie on a bed. I’m much less visible lying on the floor, squashed up between the wall and a captain’s bed. My duffel bag is my pillow and I lie on one blanket and cover myself with another. The captain’s bed is great because it has drawers underneath it where I store the blankets I use. I make sure to fold them neatly, so if people do look over the bed because they are considering buying it, they won’t see anything out of the ordinary. They’ll just think it’s part of the display.
There is a security office where they monitor the various cameras all around the mall, but I don’t worry about it anymore. It was only my third day at the mall when I overheard two young security guards chatting with each other as they headed to the security office. “I can’t believe they fork over minimum wage so I can sit around all night, looking at monitors,” I heard one guy say. He laughed. “What a sweet deal,” he continued. “Those chairs are seriously comfortable for napping!”
Ernest passes through and I hurry to the washroom. They lock the washrooms in the mall, but not here in the department store. I fill the paper coffee cup I always have in my bag to the brim twice with water to drink to help me feel full until I can get to Dominion. Now it’s just a matter of staying out of sight until after the first customers come wandering in.
I return to the furniture section and hang out near my captain’s bed. Normally, I head over to the stationery and book section and browse, but I don’t have the energy for that today. I make myself comfortable leaning up against the wall and promptly doze off. I jump up with a start when I hear a little boy chattering happily about getting a “big boy bed.” I crawl to the end of the bed, and peer over. Oh good, the boy and his mother have their backs to me. I stand, and cautiously wind my way through the furniture section, trying to look less like I’ve just spent the night in the store, and more like I’m just cruising around the furniture section, sizing up beds, deciding which one I want to purchase.
I head to the lockers, where I know there’s a broken one I can just open and use without coins. I stuff my wallet in my pocket and put my duffel bag in the locker, saying a small prayer it doesn’t get stolen. I don’t have much, but it would suck to lose what I do have.
As I exit the mall and begin the ten-block-walk to Dominion, I mentally walk the aisles of the grocery store. I need to decide on food that will keep a few days in a locker, stuff I can easily snack on that has some nutritional value. I might find something suitable in the aisle with the applesauce and canned fruit. I don’t want to spend any more time in the store than necessary; I’ve already been to that grocery store a few times, on different days and at different times. The last thing I need is for cashiers to start recognizing me.
While I’m enjoying the warm sun on my face, this spring weather is not helpful for shoplifting at all. In the winter, I wore my coat. It was warm, and I could easily stash food in it. One time, I managed to smuggle a whole loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter out of the store under my jacket. The bread got a little squashed, but whatever. It tasted fine, and lasted me two days.
I’m nearing Dominion and my heart starts thumping faster. I time my thoughts to the tread of my feet on the sidewalk. “I can’t get caught, I can’t get caught…” Chanting the words in a steady rhythm that matches my footfalls is soothing. My hands are thrust deep in my pockets, and I’m looking down at the sidewalk squares as I continue toward the grocery store. My heart rate decreases. If I adjust my stride just so, I find I can step over each sidewalk crack.
Suddenly, I’m thrust back into a memory of nine-year-old me. I remember doing this stepping over the sidewalk crack thing every day on my walk home from school in grade four. Back then, I used to believe if I didn’t step on any cracks it was good luck and nothing bad would happen to me. I used to spend the entire walk home worrying about what state Grandma would be in when I got there. I recall wishing my Grandma didn’t have a drinking problem. I wanted her to be more like that grandma on the TV show The Waltons. When the two oldest kids on that show—John Boy and Mary Ellen—came home from school, they didn’t have to worry about what mood their nice old grandma would be in.
I stop to tighten my shoelace as the memory of one particular day in late September of that year washes over me. It was a Monday, a day I normally loved. I’d gotten through another weekend with Grandma, and now I had a whole week of school away from her to look forward to. I had a note in my backpack to give Grandma. I had been called to the principal’s office that day, just before lunch, to be told I was no longer eligible to be in the lunch program. Grandma had taken early retirement a month before and was now home all day. By the school’s reasoning, I didn’t need to stay for lunch; I could go home. I still remember how stiffly I sat in the chair in the principal’s office, and how tightly clenched my hands in my lap were. I sat all through lunch that day thinking how unfair it was to kick me out of the lunch program; there were always a few empty seats around, what was the school’s problem anyway?
I’d made extra sure not to step on any cracks that fall afternoon. I didn’t want to have to give the envelope with the note to Grandma if she was in one of her sad, crying moods, or worse still, in one of her mad moods, where I wasn’t safe from getting yelled at and smacked. All the way home that day I hoped for a silly, goofy Grandma to greet me at the back door.
I stop abruptly when I realize I’ve just absently pushed through the front door of Dominion. Okay, no more time for trips down memory lane. I go right to the middle aisles where all the canned foods, pastas, spices, salad dressings, and baking items are. I avoid the outside aisles, one of which has the fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh breads and pastries, and the other aisle having cleaning supplies and chemicals. I also don’t go near the frozen foods.
My sweatshirt is extra-large and roomy. It also has a pocket on the outside where I can put things. My pants are loose enough that I can stuff a few small items down them. I stride confidently down the applesauce and canned fruit aisle. I’ve got my eye on those fruit cups with the pull-back lids, and granola bars. I check that no one’s around, and casually pick up a box of granola bars. I turn it around in my hands until I see the ingredient list. I pretend to read the label while I tear the box open as quickly and silently as I can, and then stuff the individual bars into my sweatshirt pocket. The fruit cups come in packs of four and it’s easy enough to slip them out of their cardboard sleeve; I cram two fruit cups in the pocket of my sweatshirt and two down my pants. I’ve got room for a little bit more, and the individual packs of crackers and cheese have caught my eye. I meander further down the aisle and pick up two packs. I put one pack in each sweatshirt sleeve and I’m ready to go.
I’m turning the corner and making great progress towards the exit when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Shit! I’ve been caught. If I run, everything I have carefully stashed on my body is going to fall on the floor. I turn around slowly. Maybe I can talk my way out of this. Drum up a few tears, say I was dared to by a friend…