Free Lunch
Page 15
I’ve never been to Ethan’s, so I don’t know what to expect. So when we turn into Ethan’s neighborhood, I can’t believe how big the houses are. They’re all two stories. Some have little waterfalls in the front yards, or metal gates like something from a movie. I double-check the address as the truck pulls up in front of Ethan’s house.
“Wow,” I whisper to myself. It’s practically a mansion.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say to Sam. But when I open the door to hop out, Sam grabs my arm.
“H-h-hold up. Th-this is a pr-pretty big lawn. D-d-does your friend t-take care of it, or his d-d-dad?”
I don’t have time to answer before Ethan’s front door opens. He and his dad walk out. I expected Sam to drop me off and leave. Instead, he hops out of the truck and walks around to this side. He shakes Ethan’s dad’s hand. “S-s-say, d-do you already have a lawn c-care sp-sp-specialist?”
All the differences between Ethan and me are right there in my face. Ethan’s dad wears loafers, a button-up shirt, and a tie. His smile has straight teeth. A nice new car is parked in the driveway. By my side, Sam wears shoes covered in mud and a grass-stained work polo. He smokes a cigarette as he stutters through semi-yellow teeth. His company truck is at our back. I feel this big ball of shame well up inside of me.
Ethan grabs my backpack. “Come on. Let the adults talk.”
He drags me inside. The front room is two stories tall and has a curling stairway. Gold-framed pictures of his family hang perfectly on the walls. There are no stains on the carpet, or on the white furniture. Everything has its place, but nothing is overcrowded. Fresh flowers in vases are everywhere. His stepmom leans over the railing from their upstairs TV room and gives a friendly wave. She is wearing a skirt, a pretty blouse, and a gold necklace. She wears lipstick and her hair is done. “You must be Rex. Welcome! If you want anything to eat or drink, help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“This way,” Ethan says. He signals to go right, into a giant space with vaulted ceilings and a huge window looking out at the front yard. There’s a set of bunk beds against the far wall, comic-book posters everywhere, and a huge bookshelf filled with books. He even has a computer on a desk in the corner.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say, nodding out the window where Sam is still talking to Ethan’s dad.
“About what?”
“My stepdad. Trying to sell your dad lawn care.”
Ethan shrugs. “So?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“My dad is an accountant. That’s embarrassing.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Explain it to me then,” Ethan says.
I don’t know how to tell him how poor I am. How we live in government-subsidized housing, or how I get free lunch. Instead of saying anything, I stare at his floor.
Ethan pats me on the back. “You do realize every kid is embarrassed of their parents, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
Ethan cuts me off. “But what? You think your embarrassment is worse than mine? No offense, but you’re not that special. You’re just like everyone else. You have issues with your stepdad? So what? I have issues with my stepmom. Welcome to the human race.”
“She’s so nice though,” I say.
“To your face,” Ethan says. He closes his bedroom door. “Trust me. She’s a nightmare. She definitely doesn’t like me.”
“Really?”
“Really. She hates my real mom, and by extension, me. The whole holiday ski trip, she was nagging. ‘Ethan, don’t put your elbows on the table. Ethan, tuck in your shirt. Ethan, we’re on a ski trip, can’t you put that book down for two seconds? Ethan, why can’t you smile more?’ It’s exhausting.”
“I kinda thought you had a perfect life,” I admit. “I mean, you dress nice, and have tons of comics, and you always have homemade lunches at school. I figured your parents must care if they make those for you.”
“Ha!” Ethan roars. “I make my own lunch!”
“You do?”
“Yeah, you dope. You shouldn’t assume things. And come on, no one has a perfect life. There’s no such thing as ‘perfect.’ It’s just an idea.”
“I never thought of it like that,” I say, really thinking about what that means.
“OK, enough serious talk,” Ethan says. “Let’s read some comics.”
Then I remember what I brought. I pull it out of my backpack and give it to Ethan. He asks, “What’s this?”
“Your Christmas present. Sorry it’s late. But it’s your own book, with you as the hero in it. I wrote the story and typed it up on my neighbor’s typewriter. There’s a bunch of mistakes, so just ignore the crossed-out words.”
“Wait. You made this?”
“It’s only ten pages,” I explain. “I was going to make you a comic, but I’m not a very good drawer.”
“Illustrator,” Ethan corrects me, but not in a mean way. “I don’t think ‘drawer’ is a word. Unless you’re talking about a desk drawer. Or underpants, but that’s plural. Drawers. Never mind.”
“I wasn’t going to give it to you, but . . .” My voice trails off. I don’t want to admit it, that I didn’t have any money. But Ethan got me something and I had to get him something. So I made this. Instead, I say, “It’s kinda dumb. If you don’t like it, that’s OK.”
“It’s not OK,” Ethan says. “Dude, it’s amazing!”
“Come on, it’s not that great,” I say.
Ethan looks me in the eye. “Yes, it is. This is the best present I’ve ever gotten.”
I look around his room. He has a trunk full of comics and cool posters. He has a TV, a stereo with a CD changer, even a telescope. He probably gets all kinds of cool presents. I say, “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. What you made—this—this is a real gift. It’s not thoughtless. Don’t put yourself down. What you made is amazing. I love it. Thank you.”
“But I didn’t spend any money on it.”
“Money isn’t everything,” Ethan says. “Trust me. My family has money, but that doesn’t mean we’re happy. Those family photos with those fake smiles. The fake flowers all over the house. My stepmom being all nice—that’s fake too. Things aren’t always like they seem.” Ethan gets quiet. Then he adds, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I say, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me too.”
We both look at each other. Neither of us wanting to say anything first. Then we both kinda laugh.
“Come on,” Ethan says. “Let’s check out my comic collection.”
“Finally,” I say, joking.
Then we both laugh more.
FREE LUNCH
The first day back at school, everyone is talking about all the amazing presents they got and all the cool vacations they took. I didn’t get any big presents or go anywhere fancy. But I’m OK with that. I don’t have to love it, but I don’t have to hate it either.
The first few classes drag by, but I’m excited for lunch, so Ethan and I can catch up. When I get in the lunch line, I know what’s going to happen. Rather than get mad or ashamed, I just try to own it. It’s not easy, but it is what it is.
When I get to the cashier, I don’t hurry her, or yell at her, or get annoyed or frustrated. I just say, “I’m in the Free Lunch Program. My name’s Rex Ogle.”
The old woman licks her fingers and thumbs through the pages in the red folder. For the first time, I see her nametag. I wonder if she’s always worn it. She probably has, and I feel a little bad about that. All those times I wanted her to memorize my name and I never bothered to learn hers. Her name is Peggy.
I ask, “How were your holidays, Peggy?”
She smiles. “Oh, they were lovely. Thanks for asking.”
Peggy pencils in a little checkmark in the red folder, and says, “Did you have a good New Year?”
I nod. I did. And I’m ready for my fresh start.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I just finished writin
g the story you’ve just finished reading. I feel exhausted and sad and a little sick to my stomach. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to puke on you.) The reason I feel like I’m about to vomit, or maybe just burst into tears, is because everything that happened in this book happened to me in real life. Every laugh, every lunch, and every punch that you’ve read about is the result of an emotional deep dive into my past.
Like most children entering sixth grade, I was focused on friends and grades and locker combinations. But I was also worried about other things: where I’d get my next meal, what mood my mom or stepdad might be in when I came home from school, and when other kids would finally discover my darkest secret—that I was poor.
I was beyond terrified of my peers knowing that my parents—and by proxy, me—were on welfare, using food stamps and living in government-subsidized housing. Along with living under the federal poverty line, I also dealt with verbal and physical abuse on a regular basis. I hated my life and I hated myself. I didn’t want people to know that my family was scraping the bottom of the barrel, because I believed being poor meant being less-than. And I was deeply ashamed for it. And worse, it made me feel completely alone.
As an adult, I finally accepted that my shame was misplaced, and that I was hardly the only one. Right now in the United States, 43.1 million people are living in a state of poverty. Of that total, more than 14.5 million are children under the age of eighteen. According to the US Census Bureau, people under the age of eighteen have a higher poverty rate than those in any other age group. That’s nearly 1 out of 5 children in America living in a state of poverty.
And that statistic doesn’t even account for those around the globe who also suffer financial hardship—many of them far worse than anything I experienced.
The worst part of living like this is thinking as I did—that I was alone, that I was shameful, and that I had less worth because of the situations into which I was born. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
No child should feel alone. Or ashamed. Or worthless. They need to know that their circumstances are not their fault.
As an author, I tried not to write about my childhood for a very long time. In truth, I actively avoided it. It was simply too painful to revisit. But in recent years, I realized that little has changed in our national and global socioeconomic systems. In many ways, they have gotten worse. That revelation made me feel like I needed to write this story. I wrote Free Lunch because I honestly believe it’s an important story to share. Not just to share a lived experience and to let others know they are not alone, but to offer a voice of camaraderie to those young readers who might desperately need it.
Yes, life can be hard—sometimes insanely, terrifyingly, impossibly hard. For some, it even ends tragically. But life can also be beautiful, wonderful, and full of joy. More often than not, life simply swings back and forth between the bad and the good.
If you are having a hard time, my advice is simple: Hang in there. Give it time. And stay strong. No matter how bad your circumstances may seem, things can change. And until they do, no one can take away your most powerful gift—your ability to hope for the better.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first and biggest thanks goes to my Abuela. As far back as I can remember, she has always been there for me in one capacity or another. Coming from true poverty in Mexico, she insists that education is the only path to success. Over the years, she has bought me an endless number of pens, pencils, notepads, books, and computers. She has never stopped encouraging me. Thank you, Abuela.
I also want to extend my gratitude to my editor and publisher, Simon Boughton, who believed in my story enough to take a chance on it. To Véronique Sweet, who led Simon to me. To Noah Michelson, who let me write a piece for the Huffington Post that gave me the confidence I needed in nonfiction. And to Brent Taylor, the first agent who made me feel like a real author.
A heartfelt thanks to Tad Carpenter for the truly epic and beautiful book cover.
Warm literary hugs go to the entire team at Norton who helped bring this book to life, including (but not limited to) Kristin Allard for all the extra stuff, Laura Goldin, the copyeditors who kept me from looking dumb, and the publicity and marketing teams for getting me out there. Also, to the sales reps for putting my story on shelves, to the book buyers for taking a chance, and to the booksellers for all that you do. And an extra special thanks to the librarians and the teachers who are always providing hope to children, simply by sharing stories.
As for those who know me best:
To my dog, Toby, who brings me endless joy.
To my friends (especially Joe and RJ) who made me laugh when I needed it.
To my partner, Mark, who graciously supports every word I write, hugs me when I fall apart after working on the really hard stuff, and continues to teach me that even broken people deserve love, can find love, and can keep love healthy—if they put in the effort.
And to my sister, M, who has always been by my side.
Free Lunch is a work of nonfiction. Dialogue has been reconstructed to the best of the author’s ability. Locations have been altered or invented, and all character names, with the exception of the author’s, have been changed, along with certain details of physical description.
Copyright © 2019 by Rex Ogle
All rights reserved
First Edition
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Book design by Daniel Lagin Design
Jacket art by Tad Carpenter
Production manager: Julia Druskin
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN: 978-1-324-00360-1
ISBN: 978-1-324-00361-8 (ebook)
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