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  “There. Now you don’t look like a forty-five-year-old.”

  I arch my eyebrow, “Gee, thanks.” Despite my reservations, I look down and my lip tugs at the corner.

  “You’re welcome,” Katie says with that I-told-you-so look. “Now let’s fix your hair.”

  I reach to the brown strands pulled back by a single clip. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “If you were going to church it would be perfect, but you’re a senior! Live a little.” Katie takes the clip from my hair, runs her fingers through the strands, ruffling the ends. “Beautiful. Look for yourself.” She turns the dial on my locker until it clicks open. “Voilà.”

  A mirror was not on the list of things I needed when I started senior year, but Katie took over my locker on the second day. The reflection staring back at me isn’t the trashy stripper I expected. The girls haven’t seen sun in awhile and could really use a tan, but they don’t look bad. I might even say they look good. My partially grown out bangs frame my face while the rest of my hair is straight with a little curl on the bottom, giving it some much needed volume.

  Katie rests her hands on my shoulder. “See? I know what I’m doing. You need to trust me more often.”

  “Maybe if you came to school on time every day you could be my personal stylist.”

  She taps her chin as if contemplating. “As tempting as that is, I can’t make any promises.”

  The first bell rings. Crap, I need to get to class. I shut my faded blue locker door and spin the lock. Katie is still hovering.

  I shake my head and suppress the laugh. “Do you even remember what you have first period?” I ask as I walk away.

  She runs up behind me. “Totally.”

  “You don’t do you?”

  “Yeah I do. We have class…together?” She flips her hair over her shoulder, and I swear every guy in a five mile radius turns.

  “And what class is that?”

  “The one where we learn stuff.”

  “You’re a mess. How are you not spending every day in detention?”

  “I have a friend in the attendance office. Simon always takes care of it for me.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”

  “What’s the worst that can happen? They give me detention? In school suspension for a day? That doesn’t scare me.” She laughs.

  I loop my arm through hers and point her towards our classroom. “Come on.”

  “Hey Katie! Want to ditch?” Erin Banks pulls Scott Powers alongside us. I never understood the point of coming to school only to leave immediately.

  Katie looks over at me, her bluish gray eyes staring as if she’s about to pout her lip out. I give her the sternest look I can muster in hopes that it’ll mean something.

  She laughs and hugs me tighter to her side. “Sorry, guys. Mom says I have to go to class.”

  “Suit yourself,” Erin says, grabbing Scott’s arm.

  “See you, Katie,” Scott chimes in before Erin drags him away and down the hall.

  “You ditched a ditch? What’s the occasion?”

  She shrugs. “I miss you. And if it means I have to suffer through first period, well then, I guess I’m going to suffer.” Katie drags me into another sideways hug, and we stagger towards Creative Writing. The class she somehow talked me into taking. I should have known better. I love the girl, but a goldfish has a longer attention span than she does.

  ***

  After school, I pull up to The Bagel Hole before heading home. I have a craving for a cinnamon raisin. Dad used to bring them home every Sunday morning when he got off the overnight shift.

  My phone beeps as I open the door. I check my texts and have a new one from my brother, Seth.

  Just checking in, BS.

  He’s been calling me BS for as long as I can remember. Meaning baby sister, yet I know that’s not what he originally thought when he started calling me that. He thinks he’s funny. He’s not.

  I type a quick response back and slide my phone into my bag then head into The Bagel Hole.

  A tall, dark man is behind the register. I think he’s been here just as long as the bagel shop has. His deep brown, tired eyes flick to mine.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, adjusting the hat over his salt and pepper hair.

  I lean back and notice there’s one cinnamon bagel left. Score! “Yes, can I have a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese?” I say, pointing to the glass.

  The man walks away, and I dig for my wallet, but he comes back empty-handed. “I’m sorry, but we’re out of cinnamon raisin.”

  “I just saw one in…” I walk over to the bin and point, but there is no cinnamon raisin. “It was just there.”

  The man shrugs. “It must have sold.”

  “But I’m the only one here.”

  “I’m sorry ma’am is there anything else I can get you?”

  Disappointment weighs me down, and I can’t even muster up a smile. “Never mind. Thanks anyway.”

  I’m not going crazy. I know if I told my shrink, he would say I manifested the bagel as a way to cope with my suppressed feelings. Whatever. I know what I saw. And it has nothing to do with my feelings.

  At home I make myself pizza bites. Mom might never be around, but at least she keeps the freezer stocked. I leave the math test I aced on top of the others. I like to think Mom looks at them when she’s home.

  I grab my plate and sit on the overstuffed microfiber couch with my physics book. I pop a pizza bite in my mouth and start reading. I don’t even get past the first page before my eyelids grow heavy.

  I don’t have time for a nap. I rub my eyes and focus on the words. “A man pushes a lawn mower with a mass of 17.9 kg starting from rest across a horizontal lawn by applying a force of 32.9N…” Blinking over and over repeatedly isn’t helping. Maybe if I just close my eyes for…

  “Go Anna!” Katie calls out as I’m on stage singing Christina Aguilera’s Can’t Hold us down.

  I jump up from the couch and grab my phone. “Hello!” I blurt out still half asleep, cutting off Katie’s ringtone.

  “Were you sleeping?” Katie asks.

  “No. I mean, yeah. Sort of.”

  “Good for you. Nothing wrong with taking a break. Anyway this place is awesome. The one Erin and Scott brought me to. It’s in the middle of nowhere. We can party and there’ll be no one around to stop us.”

  “That’s nice. What time is it?” I rub the sleep from my eyes, unable to focus on the wall clock.

  “Five.”

  “Shit!” I’m supposed to be at the soup kitchen. “I have to go.”

  “We just started talking.”

  “No really I got to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  My tires screech as I pull into the parking lot. You would think after almost killing someone I would drive more carefully. But I’m fifteen minutes late. This is disastrous.

  My brown flats click each time they smack the pavement. The clicking quickens as I pick up speed, passing the gum wall and stopping in front of the stairs. There’s a long line of homeless people waiting to be fed.

  I take a deep breath and move through the crowd.

  “Hey no cutting! Back of the line, bitch,” a guy with a cigarette-stained beard and no teeth says to me as I pass in front of him. I ignore his comments and rush down the stairs and through the door.

  Barney runs from one side of the room to the other, feverishly trying to get everything in order. I toss my coat in the kitchen, replacing it with a white apron. I wave to Stan who is taking things out of the oven and before he can even wave back, I’m standing beside Barney. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Where do you want me?”

  “Anna, thank God. Right over there by the plates, hand them out, and then serve turkey, potatoes, and bread. I’ll man this side of the table. Stan is heating up the rest of the food.”

  “Where are the other volunteers?”

  “They don’t start un
til next week. I wasn’t expecting such a turn out tonight. Guess word got out that we’re open.”

  If Barney had his way we’d be open year round. Unfortunately the church uses this space the rest of the time, but he still managed to secure three days a week from October through December.

  “You ready?” Barney asks, one hand on the doorknob and the other clasping tongs.

  “Ready.”

  “Come in, grab a plate, please do not touch the food, and when you’re finished please clean up after yourself.”

  The room fills up quickly, and I methodically place turkey, potatoes, and bread on top of plates and hand them over.

  “Hey, Anna. How have you been?” I look up and it takes a minute, but when I spot the mole on her right upper lip I know I’ve seen her before. Poor thing looks like she hasn’t showered in days. Her long gray hair is knotted and matted in the back. Her teeth are yellow and her fingernails caked with dirt.

  I rack my brain, but for the life of me can’t remember her name. Did I ever know it? “I’m good, thanks. How about yourself?” I play it off not wanting to hurt her feelings.

  “Oh I’m as good as I can be. So did you get that 4.0 last year?”

  “You remember that?”

  “Of course I do, sweetie. That was all you talked about. That and your friend Katie. You worried about her a lot.”

  Not much has changed. I still worry about Katie and though I got a 4.0, I need to do the same this year. “She’s doing good.”

  “That’s all that matters. It was great to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  She makes her way down the line, and I push the guilt away. This woman remembers all the details of my life, and I can’t even remember her name. But I have to do it. I can’t allow these people to become real to me because once they do, it’s over. I did it once and it nearly broke me.

  “So how about an extra biscuit?” says a low, raspy voice. I look up from the plate and see the foul-mouthed guy from outside. Even on the other side of the table I can smell the whisky on his breath. He could have used that money to buy food.

  “You called me a bitch,” I say and he shrugs. My eye catches on the lapel of his jacket, an American flag is pinned to the top and beneath it a U.S. Veteran patch.

  The bitch comment gets lost amongst the questions filling my mind. I ignore them, and place an extra biscuit on his plate.

  He flashes me a toothless grin and moves down the table.

  As I fill each plate and pass it, I try to go over what I think Mr. Wilson will have on the quiz tomorrow.

  I pass over another plate.

  “Thanks,” a silky voice draws my attention away from Physics. My eyes follow the clean white skin of his hand up the sweatshirt covered arm until I’m looking into familiar copper eyes.

  His hood covers his hair, but I know those eyes. Beautiful and sad, barely hiding the loneliness behind the goldish gray specks.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, dark eyebrows pulling together.

  Crap, I’m staring. I blink a few times, and tuck a stray hair back into place. “Y-yeah of course. Do you want bread?”

  He nods and a dark curl peeks out from his hood. “That’d be great.”

  I dart my gaze away, pick the bread up with the tongs, and place it on his plate. He has to be close to my age. There’s no way he’s a day over eighteen. He doesn’t look like the other young people who come through those doors. His nails are trimmed and clean, his eyes clear and bright. Though his face is marked with bruises and his lip is split, now looking at him more closely, he doesn’t strike me as someone who picks fights. There’s a kindness in the way he speaks and a determination in the way he walks, like he has the whole world on his shoulders, and he’ll do everything he can to keep it from falling.

  My mouth twitches with an unexplainable desire to talk to him, but my brain locks shut before a single word comes out.

  Don’t get involved, Anna. I repeat it over and over in my head, trying to prevent myself from crossing the line. Getting emotionally involved would be nothing but disastrous. I go to remind myself one more time, but I don’t have to.

  He’s gone.

  As the line dwindles I move closer to Barney. Maybe he knows something about the boy in the hoodie. Unlike me, he still forms relationships with these people. I have no idea how he does it because one day they can be here and the next we never see them again. If I were to open my heart again I don’t think I could handle it.

  “Hey,” I say to Barney as he places a piece broccoli onto the last person on lines plate.

  “I saw you talking to Lucille,” he says then smoothes the front of his white apron. “She loves your talks. Says you make her feel young again.”

  Lucille. I’ll try to remember that.

  “Oh yeah, Lucille’s great.” I take the rag hanging by a corner on Barney’s belt and wipe the gravy off the table then hand it back to him. “I’m actually wondering if you know anything about him?” I nod to the back, trying to keep my gaze from lingering on the black curl resting on his forehead.

  “The one in the back over there?” Just as fast as Barney lifts his pointer finger I grab it.

  “Don’t point at him!”

  Barney chuckles, bringing his hand down. “I don’t know much. He’s only been here a few times. Always cleans up after himself.”

  Of course Barney would remember that.

  “That’s it? You don’t know his name? Or why he comes here?”

  “I’m assuming he’s homeless and hungry.”

  “He doesn’t look homeless.” I glance up then turn away before he sees me.

  “Appearances can be deceiving, Anna. If you’re so curious, why don’t you ask him?”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  He laughs a little. “Sure you can.” He rests his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just be careful.” He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. His eyes say it all.

  The last time I befriended someone it left me broken. I almost gave up the soup kitchen for good, figuring my other community service would be enough for my college apps, but I couldn’t walk away.

  The soup kitchen has always been about more than my “in” to college. Barney and Stan are practically family, and when Dad was gone—and Mom was mentally gone—they provided me the support I needed. Then Seth graduated and Barney and Stan became the only family I had left. I can’t imagine not being here with them.

  “I will,” I say, but whether I’m reassuring Barney or myself, I’m not exactly sure.

  I peek over at the mysterious boy, though his head is down he scans the room. The bruise under his eye is spotlighted by the light above his head. He puts his cup to his mouth and winces when the plastic presses against his lips. There’s something that keeps drawing my attention to his corner, urging me to approach him. Talk to him.

  I take a deep breath and step out from behind the table. My stride is confident, but as I get closer I turn around and head back to where I belong, stopping right before I get there.

  This is stupid. What’s wrong with a little friendly conversation? I pivot and head to the boy in the hood. My heart picks up speed, and I gulp down the nervous energy when his eyes meet mine.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” I ask, gesturing to the seat across from him. He shakes his head, the single curl still resting on his forehead, and I slide onto the chair.

  “So, hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” His gaze stays fixated on the puddle of gravy in the corner of his plate.

  “We keep running into each other,” I say with an embarrassed smile.

  “You’re the one who almost ran me over,” he says.

  I bite my lip and sink into the chair. Awkward silence spreads between us.

  “So…” My nervous leg shake kicks in. What am I thinking? I put my hand on my knee before the whole table moves. I lift my eyes to find him focused on my shirt. I look down. Oh shoot. Completely forgot Katie unbutton
ed it past my comfort zone. To make matters worse my undershirt has shifted down.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I tug the material up so I’m decent. The embarrassment only deepens as he laughs, amusement spreading across his features.

  In a desperate attempt to take the attention off me, I blurt out, “Are you homeless?”

  His eyebrow arches. “No, I’m cheap and wanted a free meal.” A smirk settles on his face. “Are you a rich yuppie bitch who thinks she’ll change the world by helping people like me?”

  My gaze drops to the table, and I fidget with my fingers. “I guess I deserved that.” I glance back up, catching his eyes for the slightest of seconds. “Sorry.”

  “Whatever.” He pushes his plate away and leans against the chair.

  “So?”

  His eyebrow arches again, causing little wrinkles to form on the bridge of his nose. He knows what I’m asking, yet for whatever reason he’s forcing me to say the word again. “Homeless?”

  He pushes the curl off his forehead. “It seems to be the case now, doesn’t it?”

  “How old are you?” My filter must have fallen off on my way over here.

  His eyes narrow and he shifts farther away from me. “Why do you want to know?”

  “You look like you’re my age, but….”

  “But?” he presses.

  I flop my hands on the table. “I don’t know. You’re just not like the other people that come here.”

  He’s different. Other than the bruises he’s clean. Clear eyes. No pock marks on his face or visible track marks. “Where are your parents? Did you run away from home?” He slides his chair back and stands. He doesn’t say a word as he backs away. With his hood still up, he dumps the rest of his dinner in the trash and places his plate and utensils in the proper place before heading out into the night.

  What the hell was that? Twenty fucking questions? Well I guess I deserved it since I was staring at her tits for the first two minutes.

  I would have stayed longer. It was warm, and talking is a nice change, but as soon as she started asking about my parents, I was out of there.