“Don’t do it,” Benny mumbles, his eyes welling up.
“This is nature, man,” Brad says. “Big animals eat little animals.”
Javi opens the aquarium, lowering the rabbit inside. The rabbit plops onto the rocks and starts sniffing around. Its little nose twitches as it stumbles. Benny tries his best not to sniffle, but he can’t hide the tears.
I don’t want to see it either, but I can’t look away. I’m kinda both scared and excited. Reminds me of when I was eight, watching my cat have kittens. So gross, but sorta awesome too. This feels like that. And Brad is right. It is nature. When we have KFC for dinner, I eat the fried chicken right off the bones. Chickens are alive before you eat them, right? But you have to eat to live.
I wonder how hungry I’d have to be to eat a rabbit.
The four of us sit there for almost two hours, waiting to watch nature take its course. But the snake won’t do it. Finally, Javi’s uncle comes home.
“What are y’all doing in my room?!” he snaps.
“We wanted to watch the snake eat,” Javi says. “But he won’t. That blind rabbit’s been in there for hours.”
“This’s happened before,” his uncle snorts, annoyed. “Damn snake won’t eat the handicapped. Senses something’s wrong with it.”
“Good!” Benny says. “All of you are murderers!”
“Get outta my house!” the maintenance man shouts. All four of us run out.
THAT NIGHT, I’M LYING IN MY SLEEPING BAG THINKING ABOUT the rabbit and the snake. I wonder which I am. I decide I’m the snake, ’cause snakes are pretty awesome. Plus, I want to be the eater, not the one getting eaten.
But the more I think about it, the more I think I’m wrong. At home, I’m a rabbit. Most kids are, since parents are in charge. But at school, I’m a rabbit too. Since I’m not in football, and can’t pay for my own lunch, and don’t have any friends. Then I began to wonder if I’m a regular rabbit or a blind one.
I start getting really upset and my stomach starts hurting so I try not to think about it. Then it’s all I can think about. Stupid brain.
FAST FOOD
Mom says it’s cheaper, and less mess to clean, to eat fast food. We go to McDonald’s the most. I don’t like that they put chopped onions on their burgers, but I like the Happy Meals ’cause they come with toys. Even though I’m too old for that, it reminds me of when I was younger. Happier.
Sometimes, we go to Burger King or Jack in the Box or Taco Bell. Taco Bell is my favorite. I like the crispy tacos the best, but I only get them with meat and cheese. I hate lettuce and tomato. Then I put a bunch of hot sauce on it.
KFC is good too. But Mom says the bones in the chicken take up too much space and you don’t get enough meat for your money. I also really like Wendy’s ’cause they put bacon on the burger on the dollar menu, and sometimes Mom lets me get a Frosty if she has a coupon.
My all-time favorite though is Chick-fil-A. They’re only in malls, and they’re always closed on Sunday ’cause they’re at church. Mom never lets me get it, says it’s way too much money. But there’s almost always a nice lady out front with free samples. I usually get one, then ask for another for my brother. But I eat it too. The chicken nuggets are amazing. When I visit Abuela in Abilene, or she comes here, we go to the mall just for Chick-fil-A. The nuggets come in this little white-and-red cardboard box. No one else does that. If it wasn’t so greasy I would keep the box and put stuff in it.
“Why are you picking at your food?!” Mom snaps at me. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“It’s the fourth time this week we’ve had McDonald’s,” I say.
“And?”
“I don’t know. It’s making my stomach upset.” Lately, my stomach’s been hurting really bad. Like someone stabbing me with a knife. I keep telling my mom, but she won’t take me to the doctor ’cause we don’t have insurance.
“Most kids would love to eat McDonald’s every night!” Mom shrieks.
Ford slaps his hands together, laughing, “Mah-Donoooooh’s!”
“See?” Mom says. “I rest my case.”
“I don’t feel well,” I say.
“You think it’s the food?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I read this article at school about how too much fast food is bad for you.”
“Oh, here we go. You read one article and now you’re Mr. Science! Are you a doctor now? No! You’re not! Quit being a hypochondriac.”
“I’m not!” I say, even though I don’t know what that is. “But think about it. The food is cheap, right? That means the owners can’t spend lots of money on good, fresh ingredients. What if we’re not even eating real meat?”
“You’re being ridiculous. It’s fine. It meets all the food requirements. The burger has bread, meat, and cheese. And you get veggies from the fries.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” I say.
“What do you know? Nothing!” Mom snaps. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—when you start paying for the food, you can choose where we eat.”
THE NEXT NIGHT, MOM TAKES ME AND FORD BACK TO MCDONALD’S, like she needs to prove a point. I ask, “Why are we back here again?”
“I don’t get you. Most kids would kill to eat burgers and fries every night.”
“Well, I’m not most kids.”
“That’s for damn sure!” Mom moans.
At the cashier, Mom orders for me and Ford. She always does that. We don’t get a choice. She never orders my burger plain, and I have to pick off those little onions every time. By the time I get off the onions, the burger is cold. The bread still tastes like onions too. So gross.
“Will you order mine plain?” I ask. “Please?”
“Don’t be difficult,” Mom snaps. “Go find a seat.”
I find a table close by, so I can shout “Plain!” when she orders my burger. This time, I notice something weird. When the cashier gives the total for our meal, Mom doesn’t pull out cash or her checkbook. She pays with some kind of coupon or voucher.
“What was that? What did you pay with?” I ask when she sits down.
Mom rolls her eyes, saying, “Mind your own business.”
A FEW WEEKS LATER, WE’RE AT THE APARTMENT LAUNDROMAT. I’m moving clothes from the washer to the dryer. Mom is using some of the quarters to make a phone call. I pretend not to listen, but I do.
“I’m calling to report a complaint,” Mom says. “The cashier at your store was very rude to me. My son ordered a burger, plain, no cheese. You see, he’s allergic.”
“What?” I say. “No, I’m not.”
Mom slaps my arm, mouthing the words Shut! Up!
“That’s right, lactose intolerant,” Mom continues. “Terrible disease. Anyway, the burger he got had cheese. When I returned it to the cashier and explained, I asked her nicely to fix the mistake. Do you know what she did? She screamed at me!”
My mother is lying. I am not allergic to cheese. And no cashier yelled at my mom. If they had, she would have screamed back.
“Yes, ma’am. I was shocked too. I frequent your establishment at least twice a week with my whole family. I can’t imagine why the cashier was so rude to me. But I thought you should know. It really ruined my experience and I just don’t know if I could possibly go back—oh? You can? Well, I don’t know. It really was horrible. I may tell some of my friends at church. You will? That would be wonderful. Yes. Yes. Here’s my address. . . .”
MOM AND SAM SAY I HAVE TO EARN MY KEEP. THAT’S WHY I COOK and clean and vacuum and take care of Ford and do laundry and take out the trash and check the mail. We only have one mail key. So it’s on my key ring. It’s my job to check the mail every day. If I don’t, I get in trouble.
I guess I’m nosy, ’cause I look at all of the mail. Every letter. It’s dumb, but I keep hoping I’ll get one saying I’ve won the lottery. It never happens though. No one even sends me letters. Well, except Abuela. But today, among the overdue bills and something from the IRS, two envelopes stand out.
One from McDonald’s. The second from Taco Bell. I’ve seen these letters in our mailbox dozens of times before but always figured it was junk mail. So I never cared. But this time, I think about Mom’s phone call.
The letter from Taco Bell isn’t sealed completely. All the damp air must have made the glue come undone. I check around, make sure I’m alone in the mailroom. Then I look inside.
There’s a letter apologizing for the bad customer service. Then there’s five vouchers for free meals. My head starts spinning. I’m tempted to open the other mail. But I don’t. Instead, I put back the letter and vouchers the way they were, lick the envelope, and seal it closed. When I get home, I leave the mail on the table like I always do. But I can’t keep my mouth shut. As soon as Mom opens them, I ask, “Did you get those vouchers because you called and complained?”
Her eyes narrow on me for a second, angry. Then she shrugs. “Yup. I sure did. Big businesses want to keep their customers happy. And I’m never happy.” Mom smiles, fanning herself with the vouchers.
“What if you got that cashier fired?”
“I didn’t give her name,” Mom says.
“But isn’t that stealing?”
“No, it’s not,” Mom counters. “Those big companies make millions off of poor people like us ’cause we can’t afford to eat anywhere else. So I figure if I’m giving them my money, I should get some back. They can stand to give me a few extra meals every once in a while. They’re mega-rich. It’s easy really. All I gotta do is call and complain, and they send me free vouchers.”
I feel gross. Like I’m walking into those fast food joints and stealing food right off the counter. I wish I’d never looked inside that envelope. Now I know. Our fast food wasn’t cheap—it was free. Just like my lunch at school.
INVITE
I sit by myself at lunch. The table’s on the far edge of the cafeteria. From here, I can see Liam and the other football players. Today, they’re all wearing their jerseys, red with white block letters. On the back is a number and a last name.
They’re wearing them ’cause today’s a pep rally. That’s this thing where once a month, the student body (which is a weird way to say all the students at our school) cuts out of seventh period thirty minutes early to go to the gym. Everyone sits on the bleachers and watches. The band plays and the cheerleaders do leaps and pyramids and try to get everyone to stand up. Then the football players come out in their jerseys and everyone claps and cheers them on.
It’s kinda like church, but for football instead of God. Though maybe I’m wrong. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to church.
Anyways, I’m sitting alone, feeling embarrassed and dumb. Feeling like I’m not good enough for anything anymore. I’m poor, wear secondhand clothes, can’t be on the football team. Just bringing it up got my mom beat up pretty bad. I didn’t want that. I just want to be like everyone else.
Thinking about home gets me all worked up and I’m getting real mad and sad at the same time. I don’t know how, ’cause they’re two different feelings, but I feel them at the same time, and it makes me feel really sick.
I’m staring at my free lunch and I get this flash in my head of me throwing the tray across the cafeteria and just screaming as loud as I can. I don’t do it, but that’s what I’m thinking. That’s when Luke Dodson and this girl walk up with their lunch trays. He asks, “May we join you?”
“Free country.” I’m not sure why I said it like that. It’s like my mouth is always saying things before I think about it. I sound like a jerk.
Luke Dodson is taller than everyone else in sixth grade. He’s wearing a pastel polo shirt and pleated dress pants. He’s wearing these real nice shoes made of leather, I think they’re called penny loafers, and they don’t have a speck of dirt on them. His hair is combed to the side, not a hair out of place. He smiles this big white smile. He’s got braces, though I don’t know why. His teeth are exactly where they should be. Not like mine, which poke out at all the wrong angles in places.
The girl is dressed real pretty too. She’s wearing a checkered dress. It covers a lot of her body, not like how some girls dress at school. When she catches me looking at her, she smiles too. I look down real fast.
Luke puts his hand out. “I’m Luke Dodson.” He’s kinda formal, which is weird. He wasn’t like this last year.
I look at his hand first, to make sure it’s not a trick. Some kids put peanut butter in their hands as a gag, or have one of those shock buzzers, like in the cartoons. Luke doesn’t though. “I know. We went to fifth grade together. At Lyndon B. Johnson Elementary. You were next door, in Mrs. Shaker’s class.”
Luke laughs. “Oh, yeah. I thought that was you. Your hair is longer now. Rex Doyle, right?”
“Ogle. But yeah.”
The girl says, “I’m Polly Atherton.”
I shake her hand too. I think Polly’s a funny name, but I don’t say that.
“Why are you sitting by yourself?” Polly asks.
I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect that. Usually kids who don’t know each other talk about the weather or about classes or favorite TV shows. They don’t ask personal stuff.
“I don’t know,” I say. Which is true.
“Would you like to sit with us?” Luke says.
“I am sitting with you.”
Luke laughs again. “You’re funny, Rex. I meant, do you want to sit with the rest of our friends? Over there.” He points.
Two tables of students are watching us. I didn’t realize we had an audience, and now I feel my face get hot. One of the kids waves.
Todd told me about the kids who sit at those tables. They’re real religious. They all sit together, talk about church things and do charity bake sales and stuff. They even pray before they eat. They won’t eat a single French fry until they pray. And they don’t pray until they’re all sitting together.
“I’m OK here,” I say.
“Well, we wanted you to know you are welcome to sit with us anytime you want,” Luke says.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m waiting for him to give me the reason why. People aren’t nice for no reason. People are only nice if they want something.
I’m drinking my chocolate milk when Polly asks, “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
I do this half-choke, half-snort thing, and chocolate milk sprays out of my nose. I grab my napkin and wipe my face in case any boogers came out with it. “Oh, um . . . uh, no, I guess not.”
Luke looks irritated, like Polly beat him to the punch line of a joke he was trying to tell. He tries to smooth it over. “Do you have a house of worship?”
“You mean, like church?” I ask. “Nah. I used to go, with friends, but my mom made me stop. She doesn’t like religion too much.”
Luke rubs his chin. “I see. That’s OK. Everyone has a different path.”
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” Polly asks.
“Yeah. I think so. I mean, it’d be pretty cool if he did live. He had all those superpowers right?”
“He did,” Luke chuckles. “And he is cool. I’m glad you think so too.”
“What do you mean if he lived. He did live,” Polly says, annoyed. “And he’s still alive.”
“I thought he died.”
“But he came back. He resurrected,” Polly adds.
“Yeah, but then he died again. Or ascended to heaven?” I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but I know this stuff pretty good. I’ve read almost the whole Bible by myself.
A lot of it is pretty boring, especially the songs and the poetry parts. But I really like the Adam and Eve stuff, and the Jesus stuff. My favorite is the Book of Revelation, which is about the end of the world, with demons and angels having these big wars. That part is awesome, reminds me of big action movies.
So yeah, I don’t remember the exact details, but I know Jesus was crucified, so he could die on purpose for all our sins. I don’t know if I could do that though. I’m really scared o
f dying.
“Yes, but he’s still alive!” Polly hisses. She isn’t smiling anymore. Her arms are crossed like I said something offensive. “He’s everywhere all the time. That’s what God is—everything. And everything can’t die!”
“So God is like nature?” I ask.
“What? No!” Polly shrieks.
Luke shushes her. He tries to smile again for me. “God is complicated. But you should know, he doesn’t want you sitting alone. He loves you.”
I don’t mean to, but I laugh.
Just for a second.
I honestly don’t mean to. I swear. But if God didn’t want me sitting by myself, I wouldn’t be sitting by myself. I mean, they say God is all-powerful. So if I’m sitting by myself, then it’s ’cause God wants me to sit by myself. Which is pretty awful if you think about it, ’cause no kid should have to feel alone. And if God really does control everything, then that means that God wants me to be poor and not be on the football team. It also means God lets people go without meals and get sick and get punched around. And if God’s a good guy, he wouldn’t let that stuff happen, right?
My mom is real crazy about church stuff. She says religious people are all twisted and evil and manipulative and just want money. I don’t believe that. But I also don’t know if I believe in the same God they do.
I don’t say any of this though. People get real touchy about this kinda stuff. Instead, I say: “I like the idea of God. And Jesus too. I think if he really did die for all of us, so we can go to heaven, that’s really nice. But I’m not sure what I believe. ’Cause if God does exist, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me very much.”
“What a horrible thing to say!” Polly’s eyes well up with tears.
“God definitely loves you,” Luke says. “That’s why he sent us to talk to you. You should come to church with us sometime. We go to First Baptist. It’s the neatest church in town. We have a drummer and a guitar player, so the singing is really hip. If you come, you can join us for lunch after. Everyone goes.”
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