I (Allison) am a grade eight student in the Challenge program at Calvin Park Public School. I wrote this story for a project called Challenge for Change which is meant to raise awareness for a global issue. My story is about two girls, one wealthy and one poor, who meet at a homeless shelter. Will their different backgrounds keep them apart, or bring them together?
*********************
I wake from a deep sleep in a warm, cozy feather bed. It’s Saturday morning, and I keep my eyes shut to savor the calm a little longer. The sun pours through my open window, bathing me in its glorious warm light. A sizzling sound from below tells me that Mom is hard at work preparing her wonderfully crispy bacon, which she’ll serve to us aside thick, fluffy pancakes. It’s been her Saturday breakfast tradition since before I can remember. Afterward, I might call up my friends and see if they want to go skating at the rink nestled between two groves of trees near my house. It will be a perfect day. I stretch out my legs...and my foot plunges through a hole.
My eyes flutter open and the image of the soft bed disappears from my mind, to be replaced by a poorly sewn, ten-year-old sleeping bag which Allie is crouching on. I can no longer block out the chaos of the crowded room, so I slowly get to my feet and prepare to face another day of the anguish and worry that is my life.
Actually, it turns out that the shelter isn’t as bad as it seems at first glance. Sure, it’s crowded and dirty, but it’s nice to have a warm place to sleep instead of being out in the bitter cold all night. Plus, the food’s all right, and the workers are nice. The owner, Doris, has a hard-to-understand accent, but she seems friendly and energetic. And Maria, one of the volunteers, was really sweet to me.
Who I don’t like is Maria’s daughter–I think her name’s Milli. She’s pretty and blonde and decked out in designer clothes, and from her expression it’s clear that she doesn’t want to be here, that her mom just dragged her along. I caught her staring at me once–like she thought I was weird just because my clothes are ratty and I don’t have a home or go to school. After I caught her, she didn’t turn her head in my direction once the whole afternoon. What a snob. If she had ever lost her dad she’d know how it feels to be in my shoes.
I peer around the room at the thirty or so faces, all thin and gaunt like mine. I’m relieved that Milli isn’t among them. Well, of course not–why would she want to come with her mom to the poorhouse again, and when she could be sleeping in or texting her friends for hours or any of the other things rich girls do? When I’m rolling my eyes at her snobbery, Mom’s voice rises above the chatter, calling me for breakfast.
I’m soon sitting at a table with a wobbly leg, biting into a thin, slightly bland pancake and staring out the window. But the bustling roads with cars whizzing by, driven by normal, happy people, make me feel depressed, so I turn my head and try to focus on Allie’s rapid, random chattering. I don’t understand how she can still be so talkative after all that we’ve been through, but I’m starting to see that we deal with sadness in different ways. I get super quiet, like someone took plastered a piece of duct tape over my mouth, but she rips off any existing pieces of duct tape and becomes louder than ever.
But you can listen to an eight-year-old going on about nothing for only so long, and, depressing or not, my eyes and ears soon wander back to the window. A beat-up sedan is maneuvering through the traffic, trying to make its way into our parking lot. A large stain of raspberry jam on the window in front of me blocks my view of the car’s passengers. But two figures soon emerge from the vehicle and trudge through the snow toward the front door, where Doris greets them with a wide smile and outstretched arms. The perfect head of shiny blonde hair on one of the people is ominous.
And, in just a minute, my worst suspicions are confirmed. Milli saunters into the kitchen, tossing her platinum mane as if she rules over the world–or at least us poor people. Mom and Josh know enough to shrink back in their seats, but Allie bounds up to Milli as if she’s her best friend.
Milli smiles and moves a little closer to Allie, but (and this is to be noted) hides her hands behind her back to avoid touching her. But it doesn’t matter–Allie soon jumps like a kangaroo up to Milli, burying her head in her shoulder and probably slobbering on her pink sweater. I expect Milli to shriek with disgust and drop Allie like she’s a (overly hyperactive) sack of potatoes, but she just grins and pats Allie on the back. Maybe the girl’s all right. I still don’t like her, though.
"What’s your name?" Allie demands, her stubby fingers still clasping Milli’s arm.
"I’m Milli," Milli says. "And you?"
"I’m Allie. And I’m eight years old. Are you a volunteer?"
Milli hesitates. "I suppose. I’m just here with my mom."
"You want to play?"
"Um..." Milli mumbles, chewing on her lip. "Uh, sure. Just wait a moment." She fumbles in her pocket and soon pulls out a thin, sleek cell phone. Despite myself, a rush of longing fills me. Mom had promised me I could have a cell phone on my thirteenth birthday. But of course, that never happened. Just like all the other things I always thought I would get sometime–like the chance to go to high school, a job, a normal life...
Allie apparently envies Milli too, because her eyes widen and she grabs for the phone. "Wow! What games have you got on that thing?"
"Let’s see," Milli says, scrolling through the options.
"I want that one," Allie yells, jabbing a random game.
"Sure," Milli says, "but let’s sit down first." She takes a seat at our table–who ever gave her permission to do that?–and Allie scoots onto the same chair so that she’s almost sitting on Milli’s lap. Milli lets her. Her niceness to Allie is really starting to aggravate me, for some reason. I try to ignore the happy pair, but it’s hard.
And when Allie pumps her fist in the air, shouting and almost toppling over, and Milli pulls her close to her and says "That’s awesome!", I clench my teeth. It takes me a moment to put my finger on the emotion that’s flooding through me, but then I recognize it. Jealousy.
Jealousy that Milli, the maybe-not-so-snobby girl my age, has bonded with my little sister before me. Jealousy that they are playing with the gadget I’ll probably never get to lay a single finger on. And most of all, jealousy that Allie, my little sister, who’s just as dirt-poor as me, gets to enjoy the free, joyful feeling that’s been in seriously short supply since we were evicted.
"Ignore it," my conscience is saying. "Let Allie have her moment of sunshine. She deserves it." I decide to listen to my conscience (usually my best bet) and turn my head back to the stained window, covering my head with my arms to block out the cheery laughs and shrieks from beside me.
Tune in for Chapter 4 coming soon!
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Chapter 2 - Milli
I (Allison) am a grade eight student in the Challenge program at Calvin Park Public School. I wrote this story for a project called Challenge for Change which is meant to raise awareness for a global issue. My story is about two girls, one wealthy and one poor, who meet at a homeless shelter. Will their different backgrounds keep them apart, or bring them together?
*********************
I sit in the cramped backseat of my mom’s sedan, glaring angrily up at the rusting roof. Mom bought this car at a used car dealer a few years ago, and it’s over twenty years old. The reason Mom can’t afford a decent car for us is that she gives every spare dollar to the poor.
"Mildred, please," my mom sighs. "I know you’d rather be at that party with your friends, but please try to keep a positive attitude. Remember, many people aren’t as fortunate as us, and it’s our responsibility to bring a little joy into their lives."
"Well, that’s all right for you," I say with a scowl. "Go ahead and help those ‘less fortunate’. But have you ever stopped to think that you’re ignoring the needs of your very own daughter, who might be considered one of the less fortunate herself? And by the way, would it kill you to call me Milli instead of that old-lady name?"
"Mildred–sorry, Milli," Mom snaps. She doesn’t take her eyes of the road, but I can picture her clenched teeth and furrowed brows. "I really don’t like the way you’re acting. Please try to have a little respect. Some of these people were thrown out of their homes when they were only children. Some of them go to bed every night undernourished, lucky just to get a hot meal from us. For some of them, it’s a struggle every day to stay alive. I really don’t think it’s quite right to lump yourself, a well-fed, safe young lady, in the same category as them. And about your name–your Great-Aunt Mildred is–was–a respectful, hardworking, caring woman." Tears are streaked across her cheek. "If only my daughter had inherited some of her personality from her as well as her name."
I’m starting to feel guilty, which really bugs me. She makes such a big deal out of everything. It’s not that I don’t care about the poor–I do, okay? It’s just that I don’t see why she has to drag me along to the homeless shelter she volunteers at when I could be at Jenna’s huge birthday bash. And about my name (ooh, I just copied my mom, scary)–what kind of woman would give her born-in-the-late-twentieth-century daughter the name Mildred?
My mother, that’s who. My activist, old-fashioned, do-gooder, goody-two-shoes mother.
We turn into the sleek parking lot the Oak Street Homeless Shelter. The building looks like it’s about to fall on us. Seems to me that if this place is meant to give poor people a comfortable place to stay, then they could fix it up a little nicer.
I guess Mom can read my thoughts, because she says, "We’re not a fancy place, but we’ve got heart."
I suppose that’s true–if dirty tables and peeling wallpaper are signs of heart. The large, blonde shelter director bounces up to us and says something in a thick accent, gesturing frantically to the room where the people stay.
"Doris says that they have a girl just your age staying here," Mom translates for me. She seems to think that this news will overjoy me, when frankly, I’m not interested in interacting with kids whose parents don’t even have jobs. Nothing against them or anything, but it would be kinda...weird.
The place is crazy busy. I have to step over bodies and sleeping bags to make my way through the room. I don’t see a girl my own age, but I do see a man in a wheelchair who flaps his hand at me, trying to wave.
"That’s Jimmy," Mom says cheerfully. "He has cerebral palsy, which means he has trouble moving his limbs. He can’t talk, but he’s a very friendly person."
I smile apprehensively at Jimmy and park myself on a narrow bench, across from the girl my own age, whom I’ve just spotted. She has long, stringy dark hair, which hangs loosely over her pale, sickly-looking face. Her clothes are thin and ragged, her sneakers nearly falling apart. She and her family–a middle-aged woman, a little girl, and a teenage boy, who all have the same look as her–are sitting cross-legged on threadbare sleeping bags, biting into pieces of baguette like it’s the only thing they got to eat all day. Which it probably is.
"I wish Dad would come back," the girl sighs softly. I notice that her eyes are red and puffy.
Suddenly interested, I tap on the shoulder of my mom, who’s talking to Jimmy. She spins around. "Yes?"
"How did that girl there lose her dad?"
She taps her chin, thinking. "I think Doris said the parents were fighting and the dad just walked out on them. He didn’t leave any money, food, anything. And when the mom lost her job, the family started slipping into poverty. It’s tragic." She takes out a Kleenex and blows her nose loudly–my mom tends to be slightly overemotional about these things. "I think the young girl’s name is Rachel."
I look at this Rachel, with her threadbare clothes, and suddenly feel a strange sense of connection to her. You see, Great-Aunt Mildred wasn’t the only person who died in our family recently.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday–coming home from Pizza Pizza with Dad (my mom would never waste money on something as superficial as a restaurant). Singing along at the top of our lungs to oldies songs on the radio, not a care in the world. The yellow Hummer, driven by a drunken man, that hit a road sign and came barreling toward us like a giant spinning top. The roof caving in–knocked roughly out of the car–screaming at the top of my lungs–my dad slumped at the side of the road, his face streaked with blood. It took all the energy I could muster in my bruised and shaking hands to pick up the cell phone and call 911 and my mom. I was unconscious before the ambulances came. When I woke up, I was confined in that cruel white hospital room, unable to move or do anything but sit and feel the doctors poking and prodding me with various hospital instruments. I only had a broken leg, but my dad–as the stupid doctors said–"didn’t make it".
It was just a few days before Christmas last year, which made the pain even worse. There were no presents under the tree last year–my mom was too busy burying her face in the cushions and weeping in a strangled voice at random points during the day to buy me anything. I didn’t care, because no one could give me the only gift I really wanted–my dad back.
Thinking about it makes a familiar rush of sadness run through my body. It pours through my veins and into my heart, turning it into a shriveled lump. I don’t cry, because unlike my mom, I’m not the outwardly emotional type. In fact, you probably couldn’t even tell I was upset unless you talked to me. But I notice Rachel looking at me with brown eyes full of sorrow. Can she tell?
Maybe she can. Maybe kids who lost their dads have a strange sort of telepathy with each other. Of course, Rachel’s dad loss isn’t nearly as bad as mine, but I figure being homeless makes up for that. Maybe I can sit down with her and have a conversation about our troubles in life. Maybe, despite our differences, we can be friends.
But then Rachel gives me a look that makes me feel like dirt, and I quickly turn away. Here’s what I’m thinking: people as rude as that deserve to be homeless.
Chapter 3 coming tomorrow!
*********************
I sit in the cramped backseat of my mom’s sedan, glaring angrily up at the rusting roof. Mom bought this car at a used car dealer a few years ago, and it’s over twenty years old. The reason Mom can’t afford a decent car for us is that she gives every spare dollar to the poor.
"Mildred, please," my mom sighs. "I know you’d rather be at that party with your friends, but please try to keep a positive attitude. Remember, many people aren’t as fortunate as us, and it’s our responsibility to bring a little joy into their lives."
"Well, that’s all right for you," I say with a scowl. "Go ahead and help those ‘less fortunate’. But have you ever stopped to think that you’re ignoring the needs of your very own daughter, who might be considered one of the less fortunate herself? And by the way, would it kill you to call me Milli instead of that old-lady name?"
"Mildred–sorry, Milli," Mom snaps. She doesn’t take her eyes of the road, but I can picture her clenched teeth and furrowed brows. "I really don’t like the way you’re acting. Please try to have a little respect. Some of these people were thrown out of their homes when they were only children. Some of them go to bed every night undernourished, lucky just to get a hot meal from us. For some of them, it’s a struggle every day to stay alive. I really don’t think it’s quite right to lump yourself, a well-fed, safe young lady, in the same category as them. And about your name–your Great-Aunt Mildred is–was–a respectful, hardworking, caring woman." Tears are streaked across her cheek. "If only my daughter had inherited some of her personality from her as well as her name."
I’m starting to feel guilty, which really bugs me. She makes such a big deal out of everything. It’s not that I don’t care about the poor–I do, okay? It’s just that I don’t see why she has to drag me along to the homeless shelter she volunteers at when I could be at Jenna’s huge birthday bash. And about my name (ooh, I just copied my mom, scary)–what kind of woman would give her born-in-the-late-twentieth-century daughter the name Mildred?
My mother, that’s who. My activist, old-fashioned, do-gooder, goody-two-shoes mother.
We turn into the sleek parking lot the Oak Street Homeless Shelter. The building looks like it’s about to fall on us. Seems to me that if this place is meant to give poor people a comfortable place to stay, then they could fix it up a little nicer.
I guess Mom can read my thoughts, because she says, "We’re not a fancy place, but we’ve got heart."
I suppose that’s true–if dirty tables and peeling wallpaper are signs of heart. The large, blonde shelter director bounces up to us and says something in a thick accent, gesturing frantically to the room where the people stay.
"Doris says that they have a girl just your age staying here," Mom translates for me. She seems to think that this news will overjoy me, when frankly, I’m not interested in interacting with kids whose parents don’t even have jobs. Nothing against them or anything, but it would be kinda...weird.
The place is crazy busy. I have to step over bodies and sleeping bags to make my way through the room. I don’t see a girl my own age, but I do see a man in a wheelchair who flaps his hand at me, trying to wave.
"That’s Jimmy," Mom says cheerfully. "He has cerebral palsy, which means he has trouble moving his limbs. He can’t talk, but he’s a very friendly person."
I smile apprehensively at Jimmy and park myself on a narrow bench, across from the girl my own age, whom I’ve just spotted. She has long, stringy dark hair, which hangs loosely over her pale, sickly-looking face. Her clothes are thin and ragged, her sneakers nearly falling apart. She and her family–a middle-aged woman, a little girl, and a teenage boy, who all have the same look as her–are sitting cross-legged on threadbare sleeping bags, biting into pieces of baguette like it’s the only thing they got to eat all day. Which it probably is.
"I wish Dad would come back," the girl sighs softly. I notice that her eyes are red and puffy.
Suddenly interested, I tap on the shoulder of my mom, who’s talking to Jimmy. She spins around. "Yes?"
"How did that girl there lose her dad?"
She taps her chin, thinking. "I think Doris said the parents were fighting and the dad just walked out on them. He didn’t leave any money, food, anything. And when the mom lost her job, the family started slipping into poverty. It’s tragic." She takes out a Kleenex and blows her nose loudly–my mom tends to be slightly overemotional about these things. "I think the young girl’s name is Rachel."
I look at this Rachel, with her threadbare clothes, and suddenly feel a strange sense of connection to her. You see, Great-Aunt Mildred wasn’t the only person who died in our family recently.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday–coming home from Pizza Pizza with Dad (my mom would never waste money on something as superficial as a restaurant). Singing along at the top of our lungs to oldies songs on the radio, not a care in the world. The yellow Hummer, driven by a drunken man, that hit a road sign and came barreling toward us like a giant spinning top. The roof caving in–knocked roughly out of the car–screaming at the top of my lungs–my dad slumped at the side of the road, his face streaked with blood. It took all the energy I could muster in my bruised and shaking hands to pick up the cell phone and call 911 and my mom. I was unconscious before the ambulances came. When I woke up, I was confined in that cruel white hospital room, unable to move or do anything but sit and feel the doctors poking and prodding me with various hospital instruments. I only had a broken leg, but my dad–as the stupid doctors said–"didn’t make it".
It was just a few days before Christmas last year, which made the pain even worse. There were no presents under the tree last year–my mom was too busy burying her face in the cushions and weeping in a strangled voice at random points during the day to buy me anything. I didn’t care, because no one could give me the only gift I really wanted–my dad back.
Thinking about it makes a familiar rush of sadness run through my body. It pours through my veins and into my heart, turning it into a shriveled lump. I don’t cry, because unlike my mom, I’m not the outwardly emotional type. In fact, you probably couldn’t even tell I was upset unless you talked to me. But I notice Rachel looking at me with brown eyes full of sorrow. Can she tell?
Maybe she can. Maybe kids who lost their dads have a strange sort of telepathy with each other. Of course, Rachel’s dad loss isn’t nearly as bad as mine, but I figure being homeless makes up for that. Maybe I can sit down with her and have a conversation about our troubles in life. Maybe, despite our differences, we can be friends.
But then Rachel gives me a look that makes me feel like dirt, and I quickly turn away. Here’s what I’m thinking: people as rude as that deserve to be homeless.
Chapter 3 coming tomorrow!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Chapter 1 - Rachel
I (Allison) am a grade eight student in the Challenge program at Calvin Park Public School. I wrote this story for a project called Challenge for Change which is meant to raise awareness for a global issue. My story is about two girls, one wealthy and one poor, who meet at a homeless shelter. Will their different backgrounds keep them apart, or bring them together?
*********************
It is the first of December. The sidewalks are topped with a fresh foot of snow like thick vanilla icing topping a cupcake. The trees are virtually bare except for the glistening sticks of ice hanging down from the branches. Strings of coloured lights wind around houses, lighting them with dim glows. The pitch black sky envelopes the white scene, not taking away from its beauty. I would love the wintry weather if I wasn’t stuck out in it all the time.
I am standing on a corner, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of a convenience store. My feet dig into the otherwise undisturbed snow, making a satisfying crunch. A sudden gust makes me shiver. It’s not all that cold, but my jacket is worn and frayed, threads dangling from it, and a good-sized hole is forming near the bottom. I make a mental note to ask Mom for a new winter coat. And then I remember–she can’t afford it.
I finger my fraying jacket and stare down at the weeds poking out of the snow. They look like skinny fingers clawing their way out of a pit. A pit of poverty.
Suddenly, clumps of snow fly onto my ratty jeans and a maniacal laugh rents the air. I glance up and see not a monster, but my younger sister, Allie, flinging herself through the air. She tackles me, and we both go down in a tangle of arms and legs. Though being homeless has sapped my energy, it hasn’t done the same for Allie’s.
I get up and with a couple of quick flicks brush the snow from my jeans and my stinging eyes. Allie’s still clutching my jacket as if letting go would mean falling to her death. "C’mon, Rachel. Mom found a shelter for us. Let’s go."
"Can’t I just stay here a little bit longer?" I snap. "I need some time to myself."
"Please?" Allie begs, her fist closing around a handful of my jacket. "It’s cold."
I look into her eyes, blue as the sea, and for the first time see the sadness in them. She may act the same as before, but losing her home has affected her just as much as everyone else. My heart softens suddenly. "Oh, all right."
Allie leads me down one snowy block after another. In some houses, Christmas trees have already been put up, weighed down with lights and ornaments. They seem to be laughing at us, like "Ha-ha, we have a warm place to stay and you don’t." The funny (well, not really funny) thing is, just a year ago, we were the ones showing off the decorated Christmas tree in a corner of our home. We were the happy, content ones.
We owned a respectable two-story house on a little cul-de-sac just off Oak Street. Me, Allie, and our older brother Josh had our own rooms and almost everything we needed or wanted. We went to a public school just a few minutes away from our home. I had a lot of friends, got good grades and played soccer and basketball. My biggest troubles were too much homework and not being allowed to have a cell phone. Life was almost perfect–until the fighting started.
I don’t know what fueled the tension between my parents, but suddenly, they started picking on each other for just about everything–from my dad coming home from work late to my mom buying too cheap a birthday gift for my dad. The fights were loud and violent, with broken dishes and rough slaps. After a larger fight, they wouldn’t speak to each other for days, communicating only with sharp glares.
They seemed to think that the constant unfriendly air didn’t affect us kids at all, but in truth it did. Allie would hide under her bed when the arguing began, clutching her ears and moaning fearfully. Josh would lock himself up in his room for days on end, playing loud heavy metal music to drown out the sounds from downstairs. I think I changed the most, though. I couldn’t sleep at night, either because of the shrieks filling the air or from my constant worries about what things would be like tomorrow. That made me tired all the time and unable to concentrate on my schoolwork. My grades slipped, I was grouchy and irritable with my friends, and I got in trouble with my coaches and teachers all the time. I was falling apart.
I was actually kind of relieved when I saw my dad cramming clothes and cans of food into his suitcase one evening. He had been threatening to walk out on us for a couple of weeks, and after a particularly vicious fight with my mom (I can’t remember what it was about) he was keeping his word. I would miss him deeply, but I thought that with him gone the fighting would stop and life would return to normal. But I was only one-half right. The fighting did stop, but life fell even farther away from normal than before.
We had already started to lose money with my dad’s departure. And when the restaurant Mom worked as a waitress at closed, we had no income coming in. We began receiving notices in the mail about paying our bills. The notices grew more and more threatening. One day, I came home to find all our stuff--furniture, food, clothing–scattered on the sidewalk like debris from a storm. Mom and Allie were sitting on the curb, clutching each other tightly and sobbing. Josh paced back and forth, a distraught look on his face. I stopped in my tracks, confused.
Mom told me through her tears that we had been evicted from our house. At first I couldn’t believe her. I knew we were having money problems, that Mom couldn’t pay the bills, but eviction? I thought that only happened in books about poor people.
But it was very real, and now we were the poor people. We didn’t have enough money to rent even the cheapest apartment, nor did we have anyone relatives nearby whom we could live with. Our only hope was to bounce from shelter to shelter. Almost every day we stayed at a new place. We kids had to leave school because the teasing and hostile stares got too bad. Mom went looking for work every day but was unable to find a new job. The minuscule amount of money she made from begging was only enough to keep us alive. It was hopeless.
"Rachel! C’mon!"
I realize with a start that I’ve stopped, lost in thought. The sidewalk I’m standing on has been plowed, but a few tiny dots stain it. I stroke my cheek and notice that it is wet.
I trudge after Allie to a rundown building with the red painted words "Oak Street Homeless Shelter" peeling off the front wall. I peep through a small barred window and see a damp and dingy room with a lightbulb dangling from a narrow thread in the centre. It is crowded with people and sleeping bags. I notice Mom and Josh squished into a corner. When we enter, Mom waves us over with a limp hand. This is known as the worst homeless shelter in our town. Mom always swore she’d never take us here if she could help it. I guess she couldn’t help it.
I push past a man in a wheelchair and a woman carrying a screaming baby wrapped in a ratty dishtowel to rejoin my family. I’ve heard that it’s never so bad that it can’t get worse, but looking around me, it’s hard to believe.
******
Come back tomorrow and read Chapter 2!
*********************
It is the first of December. The sidewalks are topped with a fresh foot of snow like thick vanilla icing topping a cupcake. The trees are virtually bare except for the glistening sticks of ice hanging down from the branches. Strings of coloured lights wind around houses, lighting them with dim glows. The pitch black sky envelopes the white scene, not taking away from its beauty. I would love the wintry weather if I wasn’t stuck out in it all the time.
I am standing on a corner, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of a convenience store. My feet dig into the otherwise undisturbed snow, making a satisfying crunch. A sudden gust makes me shiver. It’s not all that cold, but my jacket is worn and frayed, threads dangling from it, and a good-sized hole is forming near the bottom. I make a mental note to ask Mom for a new winter coat. And then I remember–she can’t afford it.
I finger my fraying jacket and stare down at the weeds poking out of the snow. They look like skinny fingers clawing their way out of a pit. A pit of poverty.
Suddenly, clumps of snow fly onto my ratty jeans and a maniacal laugh rents the air. I glance up and see not a monster, but my younger sister, Allie, flinging herself through the air. She tackles me, and we both go down in a tangle of arms and legs. Though being homeless has sapped my energy, it hasn’t done the same for Allie’s.
I get up and with a couple of quick flicks brush the snow from my jeans and my stinging eyes. Allie’s still clutching my jacket as if letting go would mean falling to her death. "C’mon, Rachel. Mom found a shelter for us. Let’s go."
"Can’t I just stay here a little bit longer?" I snap. "I need some time to myself."
"Please?" Allie begs, her fist closing around a handful of my jacket. "It’s cold."
I look into her eyes, blue as the sea, and for the first time see the sadness in them. She may act the same as before, but losing her home has affected her just as much as everyone else. My heart softens suddenly. "Oh, all right."
Allie leads me down one snowy block after another. In some houses, Christmas trees have already been put up, weighed down with lights and ornaments. They seem to be laughing at us, like "Ha-ha, we have a warm place to stay and you don’t." The funny (well, not really funny) thing is, just a year ago, we were the ones showing off the decorated Christmas tree in a corner of our home. We were the happy, content ones.
We owned a respectable two-story house on a little cul-de-sac just off Oak Street. Me, Allie, and our older brother Josh had our own rooms and almost everything we needed or wanted. We went to a public school just a few minutes away from our home. I had a lot of friends, got good grades and played soccer and basketball. My biggest troubles were too much homework and not being allowed to have a cell phone. Life was almost perfect–until the fighting started.
I don’t know what fueled the tension between my parents, but suddenly, they started picking on each other for just about everything–from my dad coming home from work late to my mom buying too cheap a birthday gift for my dad. The fights were loud and violent, with broken dishes and rough slaps. After a larger fight, they wouldn’t speak to each other for days, communicating only with sharp glares.
They seemed to think that the constant unfriendly air didn’t affect us kids at all, but in truth it did. Allie would hide under her bed when the arguing began, clutching her ears and moaning fearfully. Josh would lock himself up in his room for days on end, playing loud heavy metal music to drown out the sounds from downstairs. I think I changed the most, though. I couldn’t sleep at night, either because of the shrieks filling the air or from my constant worries about what things would be like tomorrow. That made me tired all the time and unable to concentrate on my schoolwork. My grades slipped, I was grouchy and irritable with my friends, and I got in trouble with my coaches and teachers all the time. I was falling apart.
I was actually kind of relieved when I saw my dad cramming clothes and cans of food into his suitcase one evening. He had been threatening to walk out on us for a couple of weeks, and after a particularly vicious fight with my mom (I can’t remember what it was about) he was keeping his word. I would miss him deeply, but I thought that with him gone the fighting would stop and life would return to normal. But I was only one-half right. The fighting did stop, but life fell even farther away from normal than before.
We had already started to lose money with my dad’s departure. And when the restaurant Mom worked as a waitress at closed, we had no income coming in. We began receiving notices in the mail about paying our bills. The notices grew more and more threatening. One day, I came home to find all our stuff--furniture, food, clothing–scattered on the sidewalk like debris from a storm. Mom and Allie were sitting on the curb, clutching each other tightly and sobbing. Josh paced back and forth, a distraught look on his face. I stopped in my tracks, confused.
Mom told me through her tears that we had been evicted from our house. At first I couldn’t believe her. I knew we were having money problems, that Mom couldn’t pay the bills, but eviction? I thought that only happened in books about poor people.
But it was very real, and now we were the poor people. We didn’t have enough money to rent even the cheapest apartment, nor did we have anyone relatives nearby whom we could live with. Our only hope was to bounce from shelter to shelter. Almost every day we stayed at a new place. We kids had to leave school because the teasing and hostile stares got too bad. Mom went looking for work every day but was unable to find a new job. The minuscule amount of money she made from begging was only enough to keep us alive. It was hopeless.
"Rachel! C’mon!"
I realize with a start that I’ve stopped, lost in thought. The sidewalk I’m standing on has been plowed, but a few tiny dots stain it. I stroke my cheek and notice that it is wet.
I trudge after Allie to a rundown building with the red painted words "Oak Street Homeless Shelter" peeling off the front wall. I peep through a small barred window and see a damp and dingy room with a lightbulb dangling from a narrow thread in the centre. It is crowded with people and sleeping bags. I notice Mom and Josh squished into a corner. When we enter, Mom waves us over with a limp hand. This is known as the worst homeless shelter in our town. Mom always swore she’d never take us here if she could help it. I guess she couldn’t help it.
I push past a man in a wheelchair and a woman carrying a screaming baby wrapped in a ratty dishtowel to rejoin my family. I’ve heard that it’s never so bad that it can’t get worse, but looking around me, it’s hard to believe.
******
Come back tomorrow and read Chapter 2!
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