Free Lunch
Page 4
And my football waiver is torn into a hundred pieces, scattered all over the living room like confetti.
When Mom comes out to make her coffee, she doesn’t say a single word. She glares at me the way Derek glares at me. Like I’m filth. Dirty and disgusting. Like I’m wrong, and pathetic. Like I’m in the way. Unwelcome. The way someone looks at dog poop on the bottom of their shoe.
I want to hate my mom for hating me. I want to scream, tell her I’m joining football whether she likes it or not. I want to tell her to grow up and act like an adult and get a job and stop making my life so hard. I want to say all those things and more. But I don’t.
Instead, I try to hug her.
She shoves me away. Then glares at me through a red swollen cheek and her own puffy black eye. With a busted lip, she asks, “Are you happy now?”
FREE READING
“I hate school,” Liam says. We’re walking from the bus to our lockers. “So stupid that we have to come.”
“Yeah, I hate it too,” I lie.
“I’d rather be at home,” Liam says.
I don’t say anything. I never want to be at home. Aside from Ford, there’s nothing good there. I’d rather be at school. Here, I don’t think about all the bad stuff with Mom and Sam.
When I think about that, my head gets all full up of these bad thoughts. Things I don’t wanna think about. When I do, my lungs hurt, like I can’t catch my breath; my stomach hurts, I feel like I want to cry. But if I start crying, I’ll never stop.
Boys shouldn’t cry anyway. Only girls cry.
That’s why I like school. It’s safe. At school, I don’t think about home. I think about classes and friends or whatever. I think about art class and skateboarding and what movies everyone is talking about. I think about making good grades or being cool or popular, even though I’m not. I think about ways to keep my secret, so no one knows how stupid-poor I am. Or I just think dumb stuff like how the lock on my locker works.
I used to mess up the combo every time. It’d take me four or five tries. Now I usually get it the first time. Or the second. It’s like my brain keeps forgetting if I should spin left first, or right.
Aside from the Free Lunch stuff, and Derek, who I can’t stand, school is pretty good. It only took me a month, but now I know where all my classes are. Now I don’t even have to look at my schedule ’cause I know it by heart.
First period is history, with Mrs. Zimmerman.
Second period is math with Mrs. Tucker.
Third period is English with Mrs. Winstead—who hates me.
Then, lunch. Which would be fun, if not for the Free Lunch Program.
Fourth period is industrial shop. Mr. Lopez is the teacher.
Fifth is computer science—which isn’t science at all. We just type stuff over and over. When Mrs. Reagan isn’t looking, I play games instead.
Sixth period is (actual) science with Mr. Chang.
Seventh period is art with Mrs. McCallister. She’s real cool. Art is definitely my favorite class. Mrs. McCallister gives us a pizza party on the last Friday of every month just ’cause. If I was a teacher, I’d be like that. Doing nice things, just ’cause I could.
Mrs. Winstead is the opposite. She’s the worst, mean to me for no reason. Well, I guess she has a reason. She’s mad at me for being poor. Which isn’t even my fault. You might think I’m making that up, but I’m not.
Just now, I walk into English class, she gives me this look. Like I’m gonna rob her. She clutches her purse to her chest, then puts it in her desk drawer and locks it with a key. The whole time, she watches me. I think that’s pretty messed up.
It’s ’cause of the way I look. My dad is white, and my mom is Mexican. I have his nose, but her skin. I tan real easy. Since I’m always outside in the Texas sun, my skin is real dark. I look full Mexican. Then there’s my clothes. They’re all too big for me. Mrs. Winstead probably thinks I stole them. But I didn’t.
Mom buys at secondhand places, like Goodwill and Salvation Army. Or if neighbors throw out stuff, they let my mom go through the bags first. That’s why a lot of my clothes are too big for me, ’cause they belonged to someone else first. Usually adults. They’re not dirty though. Mom always washes them twice before I wear them.
In English class, the first thing students do is pull out notebooks. On the board are ten vocab words and ten spelling words. We’re supposed to write them down. No talking. Mrs. Winstead likes it quiet.
I’m doing that, and Mrs. Winstead walks past my desk and sniffs. She sniffs! Like a dog smelling me.
I don’t stink though. Like I said, my clothes are clean. And I shower every morning. With soap and shampoo.
Mrs. Winstead sniffs at me again anyway. Fine. Let her sniff.
After we write our words, we have “free reading” for ten minutes. Free reading means we can read whatever we want. I love reading, but not the cheesy kid stuff. I like adult stories, especially sci-fi and horror. I pull my book out of my backpack and dig in, excited. Free reading is the best part of my day, even if it is only ten minutes.
The room is silent until Mrs. Winstead snatches the book out of my hand. “What is this?”
Everyone looks at me. I don’t know why she asks. I mean, she knows how to read so I’m sure she can read the title for herself. She’s staring at the book cover like it’s a dirty magazine.
“What is this?!” she asks again. Maybe she can’t read. That’d be funny for an English teacher.
I point to the title on the book and read out loud, “Stephen King. The Stand.”
“You’re not reading this,” she says.
“I was until you took it.”
“It’s over a thousand pages long.”
“So? It’s about the end of the world. I like that kinda stuff—”
“You shouldn’t lie to impress people,” Mrs. Winstead says. A few of the kids snort, like they think it’s funny.
“I’m not lying,” I say. My face gets hot. I don’t like when people stare at me. It reminds me of Mom starting fights in public. “I am reading it.”
“In that case, you shouldn’t be reading such filth.” Mrs. Winstead makes this face like she bit a lemon. Then her lips curl up at the ends, like she’s real sly. “Perhaps I should call your mother and tell her what you’re reading.”
I almost say, “Go ahead.” ’Cause I know our phone line got cut off. But I don’t want Mrs. Winstead knowing that. Instead, I say, “My mom doesn’t care. She’s the one who bought it for me.”
The whole class laughs. Mrs. Winstead is real mad now. She slaps the book down on my desk and storms off.
Technically, Mom didn’t buy it for me. I bought it. But she knows I have it. Mom won’t let me buy new books, says it’s a waste of money. There’s this store on Main Street though, all they have is used books. They even have a trade-in policy, so I go there a lot.
Mom’s only rule about books is no sex stuff, and no romance novels, which is fine. All those covers have women falling over bare-chested men. I wouldn’t be caught dead with one of those books.
But if a cover has spaceships or strange cities or monsters on it, I get all excited. I love fantasy stories. They can’t happen in the real world, but I wish they could. Mainly ’cause in real life, things aren’t that great. But in books, the villains—like Mrs. Winstead—are always punished. Plus there’s usually a happy ending.
I like happy endings—even if they are only fantasies.
TABLES
In line for lunch, there’s two girls right in front of me. Both have big blond hair and clothes that look brand-new. Both wear jewelry, gold and diamonds, even perfume. One girl says, “—Kelly’s dad lost his job, and her mom’s never worked, so now they’re, like, totally broke. She can’t even afford lunch now, so her mom makes her this pathetic bologna sandwich every day.”
“Ew, bologna is disgusting,” says the second girl.
“I know. It’s so pathetic. She cannot sit with us at lunch anymore.”
The two girls start laughing about their ex-friend. They’re awful. But there’s still part of me that wants to be them. Really, I just want their money. If I had it, I wouldn’t treat poor people bad. I don’t get why folks act like being poor is a disease, like it’s wrong or something. It’s hard to be poor. Being rich is easy.
The two girls don’t even look at the cashier when they hand her their cash for lunch. I bet these two don’t even think about money or where it comes from. Their parents probably give them twenty bucks a day and don’t blink. Meanwhile, I’m in line every day, sick to my stomach approaching the cashier. I hate it.
I’ve tried out all sorts of different ways to get away with my being in the Free Lunch Program. None of them have worked. Like one time, I wrote down my name and “Free Lunch Program” on paper. I handed it to the cashier, hoping she would read it, and no one around me would hear. But she said, “Oh, honey. I forgot my glasses at home. Can you read it to me?” So that didn’t work.
Last week, I tried to wait to be the last student in line. No matter how many times, I said, “You can go ahead of me,” there were more students. I ended up with only two minutes to eat my food before the bell rang.
Today, I have a new idea. When I get to the register, I point to the red folder and say, “Page 14. Rex Ogle.” The cashier nods. Even though she’s slow ’cause she’s old, it’s still faster than most days. She gets the red folder, finds the page, and puts the check next to my name.
It takes a second to realize it worked. I did it. I feel awesome. I didn’t have to say it—those words I hate, the ones that make me feel like a beggar: free lunch.
My joy lasts maybe two seconds. As I walk away, the students behind me ask, “What’s in the red folder?”
I don’t look back. Instead, I duck my head and run until Mr. Lopez shouts, “No running in the cafeteria, Ogle!”
As if that’s not bad enough, when I get to Liam’s table, it’s full again. “Next time come earlier,” he says. Derek gives me this mean smirk.
Todd and Zach are sitting at the next table. There’s only one seat left. This other kid starts to go for it, but I run over and grab it first. “Sorry.”
“Dude, can you believe how sick the uniforms are?” Todd says.
“The jerseys are tight,” Zach says.
“What jerseys?” I ask.
“Our football uniforms.”
Liam trades seats so he can join us. “I’m so stoked we all made the team. It’s gonna be so much fun.”
“I know. I can’t wait until our first game,” Todd says. “All those cheerleaders are going to be cheering for us.”
“They’ll probably let us get to second base.” Zach grins, making a breast-groping motion with his hands. “I hear cheerleaders are easy for football players.”
“What happened to you, Ogle?” Liam asks. “I thought you were going to play too.”
A sick feeling grips my stomach and twists. I think of Mom’s black eye, the hole in our wall. I flick two tater tots into my mouth, motioning that I can’t speak while I’m chewing. I don’t know what to say. The truth isn’t an option. Finally, I answer, “Football isn’t really my thing.”
“See, I told you,” Zach says to Todd.
“Told him what?”
“That you’d pussy out. You always do.”
“No, I don’t,” I argue.
“You do. Like that time at the skate park. You wouldn’t drop in on the ramp.”
“I twisted my ankle,” I say.
“Whatever,” Zach says, rolling his eyes.
My friends snicker. I hate being laughed at. So I say something I shouldn’t. “At least I don’t wear makeup to cover up my zits.”
Todd and Liam burst into laughter, pointing. Zach made me promise to never tell anyone. And I never break my promises. Usually.
Why’d he have to make fun of me like that? Zach is pissed, red in the face, squeezing his hands into fists, like he’s gonna hit me. If he did, I wouldn’t blame him. I feel my whole body tense, the way I do before Mom or Sam hit me.
But Zach doesn’t do it. Instead he says, “Screw you, fence-hopper. Go back across the border.”
Now Liam and Todd are laughing at me.
“Nice one, Cover Girl,” I say.
“Dirty Spic,” Zach spits.
Laughing so hard they can’t breathe, Liam and Todd turn strawberry red. I try to laugh too, like I think it’s funny. To fit in, I guess. But it’s weird laughing at myself, at the bad word I know people call my abuela. She’s told me stories. So laughing at that word feels wrong.
Zach knows he’s won though, so he relaxes, smiling. I wonder if all friends are this mean to one another.
The next day, when I go to sit with the guys, they’re sitting at a different table. There’s an open spot between Todd and Liam. When I go to sit down, Derek says, “You can’t sit here. Football players only.”
“Whatever.” I go to sit anyways.
Derek stands up, and says, “I’m serious. You can’t sit here.”
I turn to Liam, Todd, and Zach, thinking my friends will back me up, say it’s cool. Liam looks at his shoes. Todd opens his book and starts turning pages. Zach fist-bumps Derek, saying, “What he said.”
Having a place to sit in middle school is important. ’Cause it means you have friends. Popular kids sit at one table. Football players sit nearby. Cheerleaders too. Band kids are in one area, school newspaper and yearbook kids at another. Religious kids have a table. So do the kids who play Dungeons & Dragons. The whole cafeteria is that way.
Everyone has their place. Everyone except me.
WHITE RABBIT
“How’s middle school?” Benny asks. He’s my neighbor at Vista Nueva. He has dirty orange hair and freckles covering his whole body. He’s two grades under me, but we both like G.I. Joe and heavy metal music, so we hang out once in a while.
“Stupid,” I say, stabbing a stick into the dirt.
“I hate school too,” Benny says. He uses his dad’s lighter to burn the hand off his G.I. Joe. “They put me in a dummies class because I can’t read good.”
“That sucks.” I don’t tell Benny about my grades. It’s not ’cause I’m smart or anything. I’m not. I just work real hard. I’m always studying. People who are actually smart don’t have to. They see or hear something, and they know it forever. My brain’s not like that. Probably ’cause I’m always missing meals.
“Why do you hate school?” Benny asks.
I shrug. It’s not school I hate. It’s my friends. Or, the fact that I don’t have any. But I don’t say that.
“What are you doing, babies?” Brad asks.
“We’re not babies,” Benny yells at his older brother. Brad is thirteen and smokes cigarettes. He wears a leather jacket no matter how hot it is. He hangs around with Javi, the maintenance man’s nephew.
“Look like babies to me.” Brad takes a drag from his cigarette and blows it in Benny’s face. “Playing with dolls.”
“They’re not dolls,” Benny says. I slip my Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes figures into my pocket.
“Want to see something rated X?” Javi asks us. “Come on.”
Mom told me not to hang out with Brad and Javi. She calls them a “bad influence.” I don’t care. She shoulda thought about that before she kicked me out of the apartment on a hot Sunday afternoon. “You shouldn’t be reading when the sun is out,” she said, pushing me out the front door. I told her it was homework, which it was, but she didn’t care. She only gave me the boot so her and Sam could have the place to themselves while Ford naps. She’s always doing that
kinda stuff.
Me and Benny follow Brad and Javi. Javi takes us to his uncle’s apartment. Inside, the air is cool but it smells of stale beer and cigarettes. I see a couple of cockroaches scurrying for cover. The place is littered with empty bottles, pizza boxes, dirty laundry, and old magazines. You can barely see the carpet. For once, I’m glad Mom is always cleaning our place.
“Come on.” Javi leads the way into his uncle’s bedroom. It’s even messier than the living room. The water bed is piled with unfolded clothes. Tools and loose change are scattered everywhere on the floor. Nails, nickels, screws, dimes, pennies, washers, quarters. I wonder how much money is lying around here.
“You ready? Check this out.”
Javi pulls a blanket off an aquarium. It’s the biggest tank I’ve ever seen. Inside is a long tree branch and some rocks. It takes me a second to spot the giant snake draped over the wood.
“It’s a boa constrictor,” Javi says. “They can grow up to twenty feet and swallow a man whole.”
“Yeah, right,” Benny says.
“It’s true,” Brad hisses. “His uncle bought it illegally in South America. He snuck it back to the States when it was a baby. You know what it eats?” Brad grabs his little brother and presses his face to the glass. “Little girls like you!”
Benny screams. Javi and Brad laugh, even after they let Benny go. Brad is usually OK, but he always shows off in front of his friends. I hate when people show off. Even though I do it too.
“You’re so stupid, Brad. I hate you!” Benny says. “I’m telling Dad!”
“Don’t be like that,” Brad says. “Look, I really did bring you here to show you something cool.”
Javi pulls a white cardboard box from the closet. Inside is a white rabbit. “This is what the snake really eats.”
My voice squeaks when I say, “Wait—what?”
“Snakes don’t eat dog food. They need something alive,” Javi explains. “Twice a month, my uncle gets a rabbit from the pet store. They gave this one to him for free ’cause it’s blind.” He waves his hand in front of the rabbit’s eyes, with no reaction.