Etched in Sand by Regina Calcaterra Read Free Book Online Page B

yells. “There’s something on the back porch.”
    “What is it?” I holler, but I know he’s already running down the street. I step out on the porch to find a large, brown paper bag. It’s filled with carrots with the roots still attached, a pile of potatoes, some tomatoes, and at the very bottom, a huge watermelon. Like the carrots’ roots, the tomatoes still have vines attached as if they were just pulled from someone’s garden.
    This kind of anonymous charity is unusual. What’s more, I don’t know a single person who keeps a garden: Cherie doesn’t, and anyway, she wouldn’t drop off something like this without sticking around for a few minutes to see us. None of our friends from school could have done this , I think. They don’t even know where we’re staying . Could it be from a neighbor? I crack open the watermelon with my trusty iron—it’s become my favorite multipurpose tool—and scoop out some of the center, letting the juice drip down my arms as I inhale the sweet flesh. The sugar gives a wild rush to my empty stomach, and, in moments, I’m so full I could be sick. I load the uneaten part into the refrigerator and turn on the faucet to rinse off my hands and arms. I lift the handle all the way to the left out of habit, hoping it will grow warm enough to melt my stickiness away. Instead the water is instantly scalding hot.
    “Oh crap!” I yell. “Ouchouchouch!” I slam off the faucet and shake the sting from my fingers, staring at my hot-pink hands . . . then, it all comes together: the landlord! He must have filled the oil tank while we were gone. What kind of landlord helps people who don’t pay their rent? It doesn’t make any sense. And he has to have been the one who left the vegetables, too. Damn him , I think, skeptical about his motives. He needs to mind his own business . Why didn’t he just call social services and get it over with? Why’s he trying to keep us here and buy us food and oil? What does he want? When you’re a kid with no one to protect you, everything comes with a price.
    On the other hand, it takes no time to grow accustomed to having a hot shower every day. The best part about having hot water is staying in there long enough to really take in the warmth and rinse the day’s dirt off. One afternoon in late August, I step out of the shower and quickly slip on my bottoms and tube top. As I scoot out of the bathroom, holding up my underwear by their unraveling elastic, I steal a glance in the full-length mirror. What I see looking back at me makes me stop and gasp.
    I stand there. I try to register what or who it is I’m looking at. I’m shrinking away. The combination of the yellow jackets and the vinegar has taken its toll. Standing completely still, I examine the concave curve of my stomach and the bones sticking out against the skin of my hips. My legs are straight lines interrupted by the bump of my knees; nothing about them is shapely. I’m totally flat-chested, and my rib cage is clearly outlined underneath the blue stripes of my tube top. I have to look harder to see what I’ve always seen—I can no longer find the pretty girl that used to greet me as I walked by. In fact, there are shocks of gray in my hair in front and in back, and when I reach up and touch the spot where my skull meets the nape of my neck, I find the raw, soft patches of baldness that I’ve been hiding with what’s left of my hair. I stare at myself and, as usual, keep my mouth closed so the huge gap in my front teeth isn’t visible in the reflection.
    I don’t even recognize this girl! She is not me. I’ll have to start ninth grade like this . . . high school. Even if I could go back to Billy Blake’s, there aren’t enough designer clothes in their entire girls’ department to make me fit in. For the first time, I’m seeing what Cookie says she sees when she looks at me: a rag doll.
    Cookie returns before Labor Day weekend. Norman, Rosie, and I are sitting in the