In my room, there’s just a sleeping bag and some cardboard boxes for my clothes. I also have a bunch of books. I like reading. I used to have more stuff, but every time we moved, Mom left more of my stuff behind. Especially the presents from my dad. Lots of other kids have a ton of stuff in their rooms. And usually their parents have a lot of stuff in the rest of the house too.
Compared to them we don’t have much. I don’t mind though. Some of my friends get yelled at when they break stuff in their house. In my apartment, there’s nothing to break.
LUNCH MONEY
As soon as I step onto the school bus, Liam Forrester shouts, “Look at that shiner! Holy crap!”
The bus driver looks in the rearview mirror at Liam and warns, “Language!”
Liam is always like this, being loud and the center of attention. He does this thing where he’s smiling and laughing at the same time, so you never get real mad at him. He’s just this fun, happy guy. He’s been my best friend since I moved to Birmingham, Texas. He lives in Grayson Village, the really nice housing development behind Vista Nueva, the apartment complex where I live.
Before I sit in the seat he saved for me, he asks, “What’d you do to your face this time, klutz?”
“Ran into a door,” I lie.
It’s not just Mom’s fault—it’s mine too. I shouldn’t have raised my voice at her. I really do try to be a good kid, but sometimes I get so angry. Everything turns red. Feels like my blood is on fire and I’m going to puke or pass out or . . . I don’t know. Next thing I know, I’m screaming so hard. But that’s all I do is yell.
I don’t hit my mom back—not even when she’s really hurting me.
“You get more black eyes than I do in Taekwondo.” Liam laughs. “You should try out for the football team with me. Then at least you’ll have a helmet.”
The whole bus ride, I’m trying to get excited about middle school like I was all summer. But I can’t. There are three elementary schools in Birmingham and only one middle school. That means there will be a bunch of new students. Everyone’s going to stare at my eye and wonder what happened. I don’t want anybody to know the truth. It’s embarrassing. Girls are lucky they get to wear makeup. If it happened to them, they could probably just cover it up and no one would even know.
In my first three classes, history, math, and English, I can barely focus. Students keep looking at me. Two girls in the next row keep passing notes back and forth in class. One of them nods at me. Then both girls giggle.
Teachers notice too. When I walk into my new English class, Mrs. Winstead sees the holes in my shoes, my too-small jeans, my too-big shirt, my secondhand backpack, and my black eye. Right then, she decides she doesn’t like me. I know ’cause she gives me this real awful look, like the cashiers in the grocery store. With the tip of her finger, she moves a strand of gray hair back into place, and adjusts her glasses. Then she announces to the class, “There will be no fighting in or outside of my classroom. I have a zero-tolerance policy for violence. Is that understood?” She says it to the classroom, but she’s looking at me the whole time.
See? She thinks I’m trouble. Now I’ll have to work extra hard to prove I’m not. Which sucks big-time. This isn’t the way I wanted to start school.
After third period, it’s lunchtime. Which is good, ’cause I’m starving. When I finally find my way to the cafeteria, there’s this huge line to get food. I look for anyone I know. There’s a few, but no friends I’m real tight with, so I can’t cut or anything. I get in line. I’ve never seen so many students. Someone said there’s like two thousand students who go here, though that seems like a lot. There are a lot of tables though—maybe a hundred of them. Looking for Liam is like looking for a nickel in a dumpster full of trash.
I finally see Liam at a table. He waves to come sit with him. That’s a relief. At least now I know where I’m sitting after I get my food.
The line moves fast. I get my plastic tray and hold it out. The cafeteria workers remind me of my abuela, my mom’s mom. She’s from Mexico. So after each of the lunch ladies gives me a spoonful of mashed potatoes or green beans or fish sticks, I make sure to say “Gracias.”
As I grab a carton of chocolate milk, I remember I don’t have lunch money. To make it worse, I have no idea how this Free Lunch Program thing works. My stomach gets all tight and sick-feeling. I watch the three kids in front of me, hoping one of them knows how to do it so I can watch them go first. But each of them pays with cash. I look around. There’s people everywhere. It’s not like I can sneak off with my lunch. I wouldn’t do that anyway. I’m poor, but I don’t steal.
My face is hot and my forehead is sweating. So are my hands. I hate this. Why couldn’t my mom give me the money? At least for the first day of school? Why can’t things ever just be easy?
“Two dollars,” the cashier says.
“Oh, um . . .” I start. But I don’t know what to say. I keep looking behind me, I don’t know why. Probably ’cause everyone is watching.
“Sweetie, it’s two dollars,” she says. The cashier is old, probably about ninety. Her thin body seems so fragile she might break. She’s squinting behind thick, smudged glasses.
“I’m on the . . . you know,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“The Program,” I say. “The thing where, you know, the uh, thing.”
“You’re going to have to speak up,” the cashier says. “I’m deaf in one ear.”
Students behind me are getting aggravated. “What’s the holdup?” “Come on, man.” “I’m hungry.”
I lean as close to the cashier as possible, saying, “I’m in the Free Lunch Program.”
“I’m sorry, dear, one more time?” she asks, pointing her ear at me.
“I’m in the Free Lunch Program!” I snap. I don’t do it on purpose. Like I said, though, sometimes I get angry.
“No need to raise your voice at me,” the cashier says. She pulls out a red binder and begins flipping through the tabs. “What’s your name?”
I want to scream. Students behind me are restless. Everyone is looking at me, saying, “Pay and go, dude.” “Why is he taking for-ever?” “I wanna eat today.”
“Your name?” the cashier asks again.
I try to say my name in a nice tone, but I can’t help gritting my teeth. “Rex Ogle.”
The old lady licks her thumb before she turns each page. She finally finds my name, and places a red check mark next to it. “There we go.”
I don’t thank her. I grab my tray and walk away as fast as I can.
My heart is pounding in my chest. My palms are all wet. My lungs are tight, like I can’t get enough air. I never got like this at school in fifth grade. School always felt safe, an escape from home stuff. I only ever get like this when Mom is acting crazy, or Sam is starting something. I wonder if I’m sick, or having a heart attack, or if I’m going crazy. I shake my head. I’m not like my mom. I’m not crazy. I can control this.
I take a deep breath. Then another.
I finally get to Liam and realize the tables only have eight seats each. And his table is full. Before I can stop myself, I growl, “Thanks for saving me a seat.”
“Chill, man. I tried, but it’s the first day.” Liam leans over to his other friend, Derek. “Yeesh. He’s acting like my girlfriend or something.” They both laugh at me.
When I storm off, I slam my shoulder into some short kid. I yell, “Get out of the way, idiot.” I regret it immediately, but I don’t apologize. I keep walking.
I end up sitting at an empty table on the second level. From here, I can see Liam and Derek laughing—probably about me. All around the cafeteria, people are sitting with their friends. Except me. I’m sitting alone.
This year was supposed to be great. It’s only the first day, and everything is falling apart already. Yesterday, I was so excited. Now, I’m angry and pissed off and alone. All ’cause of . . . ’cause of what? I come to school with a black eye and have to beg for a free lunch. It’s bu
ll crap. No one should have to ask for handouts. No one. Especially not kids. Now everyone knows I’m nothing but trailer trash.
This was supposed to be a good year.
I guess it won’t be after all.
BUTT WORMS
After school, I try to call Abuela. When I pick up the phone, there’s no dial tone. Just silence.
“Mom, the phone isn’t working.”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t pay the phone bill,” Mom says. “It’s a waste of money. The only people who call are bill collectors anyway.”
“And Abuela!” I remind her.
Mom rolls her eyes. “If my mother wants to talk to us so bad, let her pay for our phone line.”
“She offered to!”
“I don’t need her money. And we don’t need a phone.”
“But I told her I would call her after my first day.”
“Then use the pay phone by the laundry room. Call her collect. She’ll love that.”
I don’t think Abuela loves it. Collect calls are real expensive. Like a dollar for the first minute, and fifty cents every minute after. Still, I know my grandma worries when our phone line gets cut off and she doesn’t hear from us. So when I call, she accepts the charges anyway.
“Hola, Abuela,” I say.
“¿Cómo está, mi nieto favorito?” she asks. I can hear her smile on the other end of the phone.
“Grandma, you know I don’t speak Spanish.”
She laughs. With her thick accent, she says, “I know, but you should learn. It will help you get a job.”
“I’m too young for a job!”
“Is that so?” she laughs again. Her voice is always warm when I call. “Tell me about you. How is my favorite person in the whole world?!”
“I’m good,” I say. I don’t want to get all serious. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I miss you more than you can possibly imagine. Or measure. Te amo.”
“I love you too,” I say. I love talking to her too, ’cause she’s always real kind and happy, and she always tells me how much she cares for me. I know that seems like baby stuff, but sometimes it’s nice to hear.
“The teachers must love you at school. You are so handsome and so smart and so polite.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
“Hmm. You do not sound like you are enjoying school. Are you?”
I know she wants me to say yes, but I hate lying. “Not really.”
“Are the classes difficult?”
“No.”
“Are the teachers nice?”
“Some of them.”
“Then what is it?”
I try to think of how to say the truth without worrying my abuela. She knows about my mom, and how she gets. But there’s nothing either of us can do. So I say, “Everyone at my school is rich. They all have nice clothes and nice school supplies and their parents look really nice when they drop them off at school. Those kids have everything, and they don’t even care! I wish that was my life.”
“There is no such thing as wishes,” Abuela says. “Do not spend your time wanting things you cannot have. Be clean and dress nice and neat. Be polite. Make good grades. You will do well. You are so, so, so brave, hijo.”
“You only say that ’cause I’m your grandson,” I say.
“Yes,” she says with a laugh, “but also because it is true!”
But the more I think about it, the more frustrated I get. “Abuela, you don’t understand how hard it is. Everything is so easy for everyone else. ’Cause they have money. Normal stuff is, like, a hundred times harder for me, ’cause I don’t have money. It’s not fair.”
Abuela grows quiet. When she speaks, she picks her words carefully. Still warm, but also serious. Honest. “Life is not always fair.”
“Well, that sucks!” I don’t mean to yell but I do. Quickly, I say, “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you, Abuela. I just want things to be easier.”
“When I was your age,” Abuela says, “my family and I lived in a single-room house in Mexico. It had four walls, a dirt floor, and a roof that leaked when it rained. There was no plumbing, no running water, no toilet. We had to go outside if we needed to make number one or number two, day or night, summer or winter. I lived in that tiny place with my mother, my father, and my thirteen brothers and sisters.
“Growing up, two of my sisters died because they got sick. Antibiotics could have saved their lives. But my parents did not have money for the medicine. Do you think that was fair? No. My life has not been easy. But we made it work. And you will make this work too.”
“Abuela, I didn’t know,” I say, embarrassed. “I didn’t know about your sisters. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Do not be. This is life. God works in mysterious ways. He took them up to heaven so that they did not suffer anymore. The next year, my father found work. He did not make a lot of money, but when my twin brother grew sick, we had money for medicine. My brother got better. Now, he is a doctor in Mexico. A doctor! One day, you could be a doctor if you wanted to.”
“I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up,” I say.
“You will figure it out. Until then you need to work hard. Do you understand?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me, saying, “Yeah. But I don’t have to like it, do I?”
Abuela laughs. “Do you think I like working every day? No! Of course not. But I do it. With the money I make, I send some to each of my children, to my grandchildren, and to my brothers and sisters and parents back home in Mexico. It is hard, but I do it.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that either,” I say. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I do not want to brag. But it is important you hear this. You are old enough now to know such things.”
“Thank you for sharing, Abuela. You’re amazing, you know that?”
“No. I am just me. And you are just you. But you are strong. Fuerte.”
“It’d still be easier if we were rich,” I say. “Everyone in Birmingham has money. They live in big houses and wear jewelry and all the kids get whatever they want. It’s like being at the mall with no money. You see everything you want, but can’t have anything. Being broke is a pain in the butt.”
“Butt pain?” Abuela laughs. “When I was a little girl, my sister had parasites. Parasites are very common in Mexico. They are giant tapeworms that grow inside your intestines to eat your food and steal your nutrients. We knew my sister had them, because she was always itching down there. When we looked, sometimes you could see the tip of the worm coming out of her anus. My parents could not afford a doctor for this. But she was in pain. So one night, my mother and I helped by pulling the tapeworm out of my sister, out of her butt. It was almost two feet long. That was painful.”
SCHOOL SUPPLIES
Mom is counting her food stamps as we walk into Walmart. This sinking feeling grips my stomach as I look around, hoping no one sees the food stamps, hoping there’s no kids from my school watching.
“I forgot my list at home,” she says, “Remind me to get milk.”
“Get milk,” I say, trying to be funny.
Mom shoots me a nasty glare. I know that look. It means Don’t piss me off. So I don’t say anything else until I wheel the cart into the aisle with school supplies.
I’m lucky Mom even let me come with her this time. All week, she’s been complaining about buying me school supplies, saying she doesn’t want to waste the gas. Luckily, Abuela sent the school-supply money. In her letter, there were two twenty-dollar bills wrapped in foil, with a card that read “Buy yourself nice things for school.” Mom took one of the twenties. So now I only have twenty left.
I hate that Mom and Sam are in charge of me. Adults aren’t always smarter than kids. I’m always doing stuff that parents should do. Like hooking up the wires for the TV or the stereo, or jump-starting a car. That stuff is easy for me. Mom doesn’t even know how to make toast, and I can cook, like, twenty kinds of meals, even stuff without reci
pes. Plus, I know a bunch of facts ’cause I read a lot.
I for sure know more than Sam. He can barely write a full sentence. Sometimes he has me fill out job applications for him. And I’m good at math. Mom has me double-check hers in her checkbook all the time. She spends more money than she has. Then the bank calls and she flips out. She thinks she “bounced” a check, which doesn’t make any sense. Paper doesn’t bounce. So see? Mom doesn’t even know easy vocab words.
Mom says, “Oops. I forgot your supply list at home.”
I know this trick. She did this last year when she didn’t want to buy my school supplies. I pull the list out of my own pocket. “I didn’t forget. I need pencils, pens—”
“Why do you need both?”
I shrug. “—binders, hole-punched loose-leaf paper, notebooks—”
“Why do you need loose-leaf paper and notebooks?”
I shrug again. “It’s what the list says.”
Mom sneers. “You’re not getting both. It’s a waste of money. You can get the notebooks with the hole punched paper. Then you can pull it out if you need it.”
I argue, “But it’ll have the frayed edges. I can’t turn in my homework like that—”
Another glare from Mom. I stop complaining. “I also need note cards, highlighters—”
“For what?”
“Studying, I guess.” I’m not sure. But I like the idea of getting highlighters. I reach for a four pack, with neon pink, yellow, green, and orange.
Mom looks at the price. “Four ninety-seven?! Nuh-uh. No way. Put it back. You can have one highlighter.” She grabs the cheapest version and throws it in the cart.
“The list says highlighters—plural, as in more than one.”
“I don’t care. What else?”
“A backpack—”
“You can use your backpack from last year!” she shouts.
I shout back, “I know that! I’m just reading!” Except I’m not. My backpack from last year has a giant hole in the bottom. I have to wear it upside down so nothing falls out. Mom either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. I’d say my money’s on the second one, but I don’t have money to make bets.
Free Lunch Page 2
