She doesn’t wake up as easy when she’s been drinking her medicine, though, so I stop tiptoeing and start walking regularinstead. I check the refrigerator; we ate the last of the eggs last night. There’s some cheese that’s turning fuzzy greenish-blue and a gallon of milk, plus some flour and sugar and stale crackers in the cabinet. Nothing good for me to munch on.
My stomach twists with hunger.
So I hunt around for some socks, because it’s cold outside, but I can’t find any. I just grab my shoes and wrestle them on my feet, doing my best to tie them. I’m still practicing, but I can get the bunny ears pretty well, and then I just tie the bunny ears in a knot. My jammie pants are warm enough to go outside, because they’re made of a soft, fuzzy material, but my jammie shirt has short sleeves, so I put my coat on. I shove my hair out of my face and pat it down before heading out the front door.
There’s a bite to the wind that cuts right through my jammies, and I walk a little faster. The hole in the toe of my left shoe lets in the cold, but at least my right shoe is fine. I shuffle along, pulling my coat tighter around me and moving as quickly as possible. I have a long way to go still.
It feels like I walk forever, but in real life I think it’s more like twenty or thirty minutes—that’s how long one episode of my favorite cartoon lasts, so I can tell pretty good. My nose starts to sniff delicious smells a full minute before I reach the alley behind the shops on Main Street, and by the time I’m actually there, my mouth is watering. I pass the giant mural on the wall of the alleyway, following that delicious smell until I reach the back entrance of Grind and Brew. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve been back here enough times to know that they always have yummy foods.
Ialsoknow that they get rid of stale breads every morning—only the breads they get rid of are never actually that stale. Sometimes they have a few mold spots, but that’s easy to work around. Mostly it’s perfectly good stuff.
I eye the dumpster, trying to figure out how to get up there. Usually there are boxes stacked next to it, but today there’s only one. Will it be tall enough for me to climb in?
I pull off my coat and set it carefully on the ground in a spot that doesn’t look too dirty. I don’t want it to get yucky in the trash. Then I clamber up on the box next to the dumpster. I have to jump as high as I can, but I manage to catch the edge of the dumpster with my fingertips, and from there I’m able to climb up. I fall over the side and into the rubbish with anoomph,my nose wrinkling.
This is always the worst part: the trashy smells. At least the cold keeps the flies away, for the most part. A few of them buzz here and there, but it’s not near as bad as it is in the summer.
I do my best to stand up and then look around, searching for the blue bag that Grind and Brew usually uses to get rid of their old breads. When I don’t spot any blue, I bend over and start digging.
Soon I’m waist-deep in stinky garbage, pulling bags aside as I try not to stumble. I burrow in a little further, trying to breathe through my mouth.
I’m just reaching for a blue bag that looks promising when I lose my balance and fall backward. I land on my bum, but I barely notice—I’m too distracted by a sharp pain that slices my lower back. I cry out, tears springing to my eyes as the spot continues to throb.
It takes a bit of wiggling to maneuver myself off my bum and onto my knees, but I manage all right. I whimper as I reach around and touch the place I got scraped, poking it gently. My whimpers turn to cries as my fingers come away slick and red.
I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to find bread. I just want to go home.
I stumble my way to the edge of the dumpster, pulling myself up the side as best I can, when?—
“What are you doing in there?”
Startled, I cling more tightly to the edge. “Help me,” I say. I sound like a baby, asking for help from a stranger, a realization that sends more tears down my cheeks. I sniffle as I try to pull myself up; my back is still throbbing with pain, and my fingers are turning numb from the cold, and I want to go home.
“Hang on,” the voice says. It sounds like a boy, an older one. I hear the sound of footsteps and scraping wood, and then he appears: a face poking up with brown eyes and brown hair. He’s the handsomest boy I’ve ever seen.
“Here,” he says, holding out his hand. I take it, clinging desperately to him as he pulls me up. I topple over the side, landing on top of the boy and sending us both tumbling off the wooden crate and onto the ground.
I break into sobs. Everything hurts and I have a scrape on my back and I didn’t find any bread and my jammies are ruined and I’m cold. This is the worst day ever.
“Hey,” the boy says, righting himself. He crawls over to where I’m lying curled up in a ball on the ground. “Hey,” he says again. “Don’t cry.”
“I got a scrape,” I wail. “And I’m hungry.”
Through my tears, I see the boy’s eyes widen. “Is that why you were in there?” he says. “Were you looking for food?”
I nod, sniffling myself into silence. “I’m hungry,” I repeat.
The boy frowns, scrubbing his hand over his hair and looking around. He’s super tall, much taller than me, and he’s skinny too. “What about your scrape?” he says. “Can I see? Do you need a Band-Aid?”
I swipe at my eyes, trying to stop crying. I don’t want him to think I’m a baby. So I sit up, being super brave, and scoot around, pointing at the spot on my back.
He doesn’t say anything; the only sound I hear is a sort ofhissing, like he’s inhaling through his teeth. When I face him again, he’s still flattening his hand over his hair.
“Where’s your mom?” he says. “Or your dad?”
I shrug. “My mom is at home sleeping.”
The boy sighs. “Okay, look,” he says finally. He stands up, his body unfolding to be even taller than I thought. “You stay here, okay? I’m going to go get you some food and something to fix your cut. It’s pretty big. It might scar. But it’s okay!” he says quickly when I begin to cry again. “It’s okay! Nothing wrong with scars. I have one right here, see?” He turns his head to the side and points at what looks like a shiny white line just below his hairline. “I tried to cut my own hair when I was a little kid and cut myself with the scissors. You can cover up a scar if you don’t like it, though. You can keep it covered or even get a tattoo there or something. It’s okay.”
