I continue reading from the list. “A calculator—”
“You’re going to middle school, not a job! What do you need a calculator for?” Mom yells. She’s so loud, another mom in the aisle looks at us.
“I don’t know. It says I need it for pre-algebra.”
“Can’t you take a math class that doesn’t need a calculator?”
“Everyone uses calculators in middle school,” I say, not sure if that’s even true.
Mom takes one look at the price of the cheapest option and shouts, “No way, Jose! Abuela only sent you twenty dollars—” It takes all my willpower to not point out Abuela sent forty. “I’m not paying for this crap. The school can provide it if you need it so bad. In fact, why can’t the school provide everything? That’s what my taxes pay for, don’t they?”
“I don’t know anything about taxes!”
“You should go to school and tell your principal I refuse to buy your supplies. I bet he’ll have some lying around somewhere.”
“I’m not doing that!” Mom always says crazy stuff like that. She means it too. That’s why I’m shouting. “Just buy me the stuff I need, OK?”
Mom grabs my arm hard and shakes me. “Watch the way you talk to me.”
I yank my arm back from her grip. “Or what?!”
“Is that how you want to play this? Fine!” she shrieks. She abandons the cart in the middle of the aisle and walks toward the exit. “I won’t buy anything! Is that what you want?”
“No!”
“Apologize, then.”
I cross my arms. “No.”
“Apologize!” she screams.
A group of moms is staring at us. They’re dressed real nice. At least, nicer than my mom. They have colorful clothes, combed hair, even some sparkling jewelry. They look like normal moms.
My mom doesn’t look like that. She hasn’t showered today, so her hair’s all messy. She’s wearing old sweat-bottoms, a stained shirt, and flip-flops. She doesn’t wear makeup. My mom doesn’t have any jewelry on. ’Cause she doesn’t own any.
I push my rage down. I quiet my voice, saying, “People are staring.”
“Who? Them?!” Mom shouts, pointing to the other moms. “I don’t know them! I don’t care what they think!” When my mom makes a scene in public, it makes my skin crawl. ’Cause everyone stops to watch. It’s like a bus crash. People can’t look away. Then everyone knows how sad and messed up my life is.
Mom hisses, “Apologize to me now, or we’re walking out of this store and you can go to school with nothing.”
I hesitate. I want to shout back. I want one of the other moms to defend me. I want my mom to get arrested or go away and one of the nice moms to adopt me. But that’s not going to happen. Finally, I cave. I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“I can’t hear you,” Mom yells.
“I said, I’m sorry!” I yell back.
Mom smiles, victorious. “Was that so hard?”
I don’t know how she does it. My mom doesn’t care what other people think about her at all. She wheels past the gawking and horrified mothers, her head held high and proud, saying, “What are you looking at?”
As I pass the offended crowd, I lower my head.
Money seems like such a dumb, weird thing. Coins and pieces of paper and checkbooks and numbers in bank accounts. Really, it’s just invisible digits floating around. Still, I wish I had it.
If I had money, I wouldn’t have to fight with my mom in a grocery store about school supplies. If I had money, I could pay my parents’ bills, so we could live in a nice house like other people. If I had money, I could dress nice, like the kids I go to school with. If I had money, I’d share it with people who don’t, so they wouldn’t have to feel the way I do now.
If I had money, I’d be happy.
But I don’t. And I’m not.
TARDY
It’s raining cats and dogs this morning. I don’t have an umbrella. By the time I get to the school bus, I’m soaked through. At first I think it’s kinda funny. I squish under my arms and make fart noises and everyone on the bus laughs.
An hour later, at school, I’m still wet. My shoes squeak loud when I walk, and my fingers are all wrinkled. My first class, the room is freezing, like how I imagine the North Pole in the dead of winter, Santa’s elves hiding for cover. The giant Texas-sized air conditioners hum loud, but I can barely hear anything over the chattering of my teeth. Shivering so hard I think my goose bumps are gonna stay there forever. Finally the bell rings and I run to the bathroom. My lips are blue in the mirror so I take off my clothes and run them under the heated hand dryer. Every time someone comes in, they look at me like I’m crazy.
When I get to third period, Mrs. Winstead says, “You’re tardy.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask.
Everyone laughs at me. Turns out tardy is some dumb, fancy way of saying late. I don’t know why she couldn’t just say that.
At least it’s Friday. It’s been a sucky first week.
I’ve barely seen my friends from last year. Todd and Zach have different schedules. So does Liam, but he saves me a seat at the lunch table when he can. In fifth grade, the four of us had Mrs. Kingston. We goofed off every day together. During and after school. Now we don’t have any of the same classes.
“Ogle!” I turn around and it’s Zach. We bump fists. I was just thinking about him, but I don’t say that. Don’t want to sound, you know, gay or something. He says, “I haven’t seen you all week. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Nowhere. This school is gi-normous. There’s so many students.”
“Tell me about it. Hey, you heading to lunch? Let’s sit together.”
I’m excited to sit with Zach. I hope we can find Liam and Todd. We can sit together, like old times. Then I remember the whole Free Lunch thing.
Zach is hilarious, but he makes fun of people for just about anything. Last year, he found out I still played with action figures and he never let it go. He still brings it up. If he finds out about my being in the Free Lunch Program, I’ll never hear the end of it. Maybe if I go after he pays, and he doesn’t wait for me—
“Ladies first,” he says as we get in the lunch line.
I start sweating. I say, “Then you should go first.”
“No way,” Zach says. “You’re more girly than me.”
“No, I’m not!” I snap. More defensive than I mean to be.
Zach copies me, but in a high-pitched girl voice. “No, I’m not!”
The two seventh graders behind us laugh. I can feel my face burning red. I hate this. I’m not even hungry now. I feel sick. If I stay, Zach will make fun of me. If I leave, he’ll make fun of me. So I stay. I stand up a little straighter and push my chin out, the way Zach stands.
He notices and says, “Don’t copy me, weirdo.”
“I’m not,” I sneer. I pick up the plastic lunch tray and go through the line. I nod to the lunch lady. “I’ll take the chicken nuggets.”
“I’ll take the chicken nuggets,” Zach repeats in his high girl voice. Last summer, I would’ve thought that was funny. But not now. Everything feels like it sucks these days.
When I’m about to pay, I say: “I forgot my silverware. I have to go back and get it. Why don’t you pay, and go find us a table, I’ll catch up.”
“OK, stupid,” Zach says.
I take my time picking out a fork, watching as Zach pays the cashier and leaves. Then, I get back in line.
“Two dollars,” the cashier says.
I try hard not to roll my eyes or growl or snap. Every day, the cashier and I have the exact same conversation. Why can’t she just remember? “Free Lunch Program,” I say as quickly and quietly as possible. The two seventh graders behind me are talking, but I’m pretty sure they exchange a glance.
“Name?” the cashier asks.
“Rex Ogle.”
She adds the checkmark.
Walking to catch up with Zach, I finally catch my breath again. I wonder if I�
�ll have to go through this every single time I want to have lunch with a friend.
FOOTBALL
When the bell rings, the school hallways get crazy. It’s like a big river of kids rushing around, but like the dangerous-rapids kind in the movies. There’s only four minutes between classes. You leave one class, grab books from your locker, and head to the next class. Four minutes isn’t long. It’s barely enough time for me to figure out my locker combo.
Birmingham Middle has sixth, seventh, and eighth graders. So everyone’s bigger than me. I’ve always been kinda short and scrawny for my age. Since my birthday’s in August, I’m also younger than most kids in my class. It sucks, ’cause I walk out, and it’s like BAM! I get hit by these eighth-grade giants who aren’t watching where they’re going. And then WHAM! I get slammed by someone’s backpack. Then SMASH! I crash right into a locker. It’s like a pinball machine, and I’m the little silver ball that everyone is whacking and slapping around.
By lunchtime, I feel like a dead punching bag. But today, I finally have some luck. Liam, Todd, Zach, and I are finally able to sit together. Liam’s friend Derek is there too though. I’m pretty sure he hates me. I don’t know why. He always disagrees with me, and looks at me like I’m hiding something. Three guys I don’t know take the other seats.
“It’s only the third week of school, but I can already tell you, I hate Mrs. Constance. Who needs science anyway?” Zach says.
“She’s the worst,” Todd agrees.
“Totally,” Liam adds.
“All of you are in the same class?” I ask.
“Yeah, we have a few classes together,” Todd says. “Why aren’t you in any with us?”
’Cause God hates me, I want to say. Instead, I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“In the remedial classes with the retards?” Zach laughs.
“No.” I start to reach into my backpack to prove it with my schedule.
Zach adds, “Or are you one of those homos in all honors classes?” Todd and Liam laugh. I leave my schedule in my backpack. I’m in three honors classes. But I don’t want anyone to think I’m a homo.
“Who’s trying out for football?” Derek asks.
Liam, Todd, and Zach raise their hands. Then I do too, saying, “Awesome!” We all high-five.
“You’re trying out?” Derek asks me.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re too small. You’ll get crushed.”
I feel anger rising in my throat. Derek’s always looking for a way to put me down. But Liam says, “What are you talking about? He could be a safety, or a punt returner, or a running back. Being smaller works for those positions.”
“See?” I say, even though I don’t know what those positions are. I’ve never played football. I don’t even watch it, ’cause our TV sucks. It barely gets two channels. But if I can teach myself all the stuff I’ve already taught myself, I can learn football easy.
“I’ve seen you in gym class,” Derek says. “You’ll still get crushed.”
Liam laughs. “You realize you’re like half an inch shorter than Ogle, right?”
“No, I’m not!” Derek turns red in the face. Todd and Zach start cracking up. I do too. Seeing Derek all angry makes me really happy. He’s such a jerk. I decide I’m going to join the football team just to piss him off.
IT TAKES ME ALMOST A WEEK TO GET UP THE COURAGE TO ASK Mom and Sam. If I want to be on the football team, I need a parent’s signature. I’m going to ask tonight.
Sam says cooking is women’s work. But Mom doesn’t know how to cook. So in our house, I make the meals. Today was Double-Coupon Day, so we actually have food in the house. I make Hamburger Helper for dinner. I set the table with paper plates, folded paper towels, plastic cups, and metal utensils. Mom helps Ford into his booster seat, while I spoon the steaming meat and pasta onto the plates. Moisture forms all around the edges of the plate, where the meat heats the surface. I add a lot of salt and pepper.
Sam points at me and says, “Pull my finger.”
“No,” I say.
“Just do it.”
When I pull his finger, he farts. Ford laughs so hard he almost chokes on his food, and Mom gets mad.
As I chew, I’m nervous to ask about football. I don’t know why. Guess ’cause almost every time I ask for something, they say no. Then Mom brings it up for weeks and weeks after, saying how selfish I am. I take a deep breath, but keep eating. I wait until Mom stops grilling Sam about finding work. Then I pull the football waiver from my pocket and slide it into the center of the table. “I want to join the football team.”
“Foo-baaall!” Ford says. He throws a handful of pasta. It hits me in the face.
“Th-th-that’s my b-b-boy,” Sam stutters. “G-g-good throw.”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says. “You’ll get hurt.”
“It can’t be that dangerous. All my friends are doing it.”
“If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you do that too?” Mom always asks stupid things like that.
I say, “If it was a fun cliff.”
“The answer is a big fat no.” Mom—and I—expect the conversation to be over. But it isn’t.
“N-n-now, h-h-hold on, Luciana,” Sam says. “If Rex is s-s-serious, I s-s-support him. B-b-better than reading b-b-books all the time. He’d get s-s-some muscles, and maybe a g-g-girlfriend, and st-stop being s-such a s-sissy all the time.”
Despite the dig, this surprises me. Sam never stands up for me. It takes me a full minute to finally register he’s on my side. “Yeah. What he said.”
“No!” Mom fires back. “I am not signing any waivers. Rex could break his neck over some pointless game.”
“It’s n-n-not pointless,” Sam says. “It’ll h-h-help the b-b-boy make fr-friends.”
“I SAID NO!” she shouts, slapping her hands on the table.
“Why not?!” I shout back. “You never let me do anything. Let me have this one thing. Please!” My black eye is finally gone, but I prepare myself for a fresh one when I see Mom’s glare.
“Ju-ju-just let him tr-try out,” Sam says.
“Please, Mom, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll make good grades, clean the house, and—”
“I said no,” she hisses. “Who cares about sports anyway?!”
“I-I d-d-do,” Sam says.
“Oh, you mean, back when you were a wrestler? And how did that work out? I don’t see you making any money off it now.”
“W-w-watch y-your m-m-mouth, w-woman.”
“Or what?! Don’t threaten me!!” Mom screams. “Fine! Let him play! Who’s going to pay for it? Huh? Who’s paying for the helmets and the pads and the uniforms? Huh? Who’s going to drive him to games? Who’s going to watch Ford when we have to work and Rex is playing football? A babysitter? And who will pay for that? And what if Rex gets hurt? Huh? Huh?! We don’t have jobs, let alone insurance. Who’s going to pay for the hospital bills when he breaks his goddamn neck and I’m left wiping his ass?!”
“You won’t have to wipe my ass,” I say, trying to calm the situation down. But it’s too late. Sam and Mom are heated.
“So who’s going to pay for all of it?!” she screams. “Answer me that!”
“I-I-I’ll p-p-pay for it,” Sam says.
I’m not sure who’s more shocked, Mom or me.
Then Mom’s stare turns ice-cold. Her mouth twists into this cruel smile. “How are you going to pay for it, huh? You’re a loser and a deadbeat. A has-been. You don’t have any money. You don’t even have a job.”
Sam throws the whole table to the side. I barely dodge out of the way in time. Paper plates and silverware fly through the air, Hamburger Helper splatters the white walls. I’ve never seen the table on its side before. It feels all wrong, like gravity has reversed, or I’m in a dream.
Everything happens so fast after that. Sam is in Mom’s face. Screaming, his stutter gone. Mom doesn’t back down though. She’s unafraid. Thrives on this. Now she gets in his face. Point
ing, poking his face, his chest. Mom is screaming so hard, spit comes out. About his ice-cold mother, about his alcoholic father, about what a loser he is, how she needs to go out and find a real man, one that can pay the bills.
My mom knows exactly what to say to hurt someone.
When I see Ford, tears streaming down his face, his crying lost in the storm of Sam and Mom’s screams—I snap back to myself. This isn’t a dream.
I pick up my brother and carry him into my room. I close the door, just in time, so we don’t have to see what comes next. Even behind the thin, plastic door, we can still hear it, feel it. Hear the brawl, the screams turning into thuds and gasps for air. Feel the floor vibrations of wrestling and kicking, someone trying to hold their ground, and failing. Feel two bodies crash to the floor, and hear a woman’s voice wail in pain. And even though it’s so quiet, even twenty feet away, I know the sound of air moving aside as a fist comes down, again and again.
I turn on the radio to block the noise. I build a pillow fort for Ford. I don’t have big fancy pillows or plush couch cushions, just the one old pillow I sleep with. But I have cardboard boxes from our last move. I have thumbtacks to pin my sheets to the walls, creating new walls, and alleys and roofs, so we’re hidden away in a labyrinth. I pretend out loud that I’ve built him a majestic castle, describing every brick and barrier and weapon that will protect him from the monsters outside.
Inside the blankets and constructed walls, hidden deep inside my sleeping bag, I turn on a flashlight and hold Ford close. I tell him made-up stories of worlds far away from here until finally he falls asleep. When I try to go to sleep, I still hear the battle outside the castle walls. I try not to move, not to cry, so I don’t wake up my brother.
I’m not upset for me. I’m upset for Ford. And for my mom. Usually the fights aren’t my fault. This time, it is.
IN THE MORNING, FURNITURE IS OVERTURNED. A CHAIR IS MISSING a leg and a lamp is broken. Last night’s dinner is still splashed everywhere, but it’s all dried and crusted. A huge crater now lives in the wall, like an abstract painting. The crater is the same size as my mom’s body.
Free Lunch Page 3
