The Girl Who Never Lived

Mom's been gone for three days.

I count again just to be sure. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Today's Friday. The clock on the stove blinks 7:02 AM, but the power must've gone out at some point last night because it was blinking 3:17 when I got up to pee.

Three days. Not a single text. Not even one of her classic voicemail rants that always start with "Helena, don't start with me." Nothing.

The cereal box is empty. I already knew that, but I shake it anyway, just in case some invisible crumbs appear out of loyalty. Nothing but the dusty sound of disappointment. I think about mixing water with the last spoonful of peanut butter, but the idea makes my stomach churn. I'm not that desperate. Not yet.

I go to the fridge. Half a bottle of ketchup, two pickles floating in ghost juice, and a slice of processed cheese that's curled at the edges like it's afraid of me. I grab the cheese and chew slow, even though it tastes like rubber and regret.

There's ten dollars in the coffee mug on top of the fridge. I stare at it for a long time. That was supposed to be for laundry. Mom left it before her last shift at the diner. "In case the machine eats your socks," she joked, but I saw the look in her eye. The fear behind the laugh.

She knew she wasn't coming back.

I take the ten dollars anyway. I tuck it into my bra and zip up my hoodie. My stomach growls like it's arguing with me, and I whisper, "I'm working on it," like that'll help

School is five blocks away. I take the alley behind the Dollar Mart so Mrs. Crenshaw doesn't see me walking past her window. She's the neighborhood snoop. The type who'd call child services just because she hasn't seen Mom's car.

Not that she's wrong. Just... not her business.

When I get to school, I slip into the bathroom first. I change into a clean(ish) T-shirt from my backpack and wash my face with the awful pink soap that smells like fake flowers. I use the hand dryer to fluff up my hair and give myself a look in the mirror. My eyes are dull, bruised underneath. But I smile. Just enough.

Nobody can know.

In first period, Mr. Delaney drones on about European revolutions, and I try to look interested while secretly counting the hours until lunch. If I can just make it to lunch, I can eat something and figure out what to do next. If I time it right, I can sneak a couple extra milks and maybe swipe an apple.

When the bell rings, I bolt for the cafeteria. I sit at the end of the table with the girls from drama club. They don't really notice me, which is good. I make a show of opening my brown bag even though there's nothing in it. I get in line with the rest of them like I have a ticket.

The lunch lady eyes me hard. "You already used up your balance, Helena."

"I know. I forgot my lunch card. My mom-she said she'd refill it this week."

She doesn't believe me. But she lets me through. Maybe she pities me. Maybe she knows. Maybe she remembers what it's like to be hungry.

I eat like I've never seen food before. The meatloaf is gray and spongy, but I chew like it's steak. I pocket an orange and two plastic forks. You'd be surprised what you can do with a plastic fork if you're desperate enough.