This runs deeper than our blood

"The only guys who treat me right are Ben and Jerry."

Today was a good day. No. It was a great day. And I was an expert at telling if a day was going to be a merry one or not. It hadn't started out as fantastic though. The tremendous downpour had left me a shivering mess huddled near the run-down ice cream truck that was closed down because of the weather. Besides for the occasional mice or cats that yowled by, I had no company whatsoever. The blasts of wind shooting from the sky didn't help either. It was at least seven degrees out and the only thing to keep me warm was the torn, used-to-be white rag which had two holes in it for my arms. My coppery hair wilted over my eyes, blocking my vision as I spewed water out from my mouth. The slippery feel of the rain wasn't exactly marvellous but the thing that made the day as awesome as I say it was, was because I got fresh water. It was the greatest of greatest gifts in my entire life. Fresh water was hard to come by. Even the lakes, which the people in Signerone claimed to be made of water fresh from the mountains, were contaminated. How did I know that? I saw a group of boys peeing in it.

Everyone in Signerone threw out waste water from their windows like you would throw out rubbish. On good days, the water would pour straight into my mouth if I stood in the right spot. On bad days, the water would spill everywhere but where I stood. Days like this, however, were rare to come by because it barely rained in this small city. So you can probably imagine how enthralled I was when heaven opened its floodgates down on me. The clouds swirled above like that for a long time, so much so that I nearly lost self control. But when the uproar died down, I was free. I roamed the streets for some time, ignoring the usual disgusted and sometimes scared looks the people shot at me. I could hear them muttering their opinions of me.

"Street rat."

"Doesn't belong here."

"Go home."

And then, sometimes, the usual nagging of mothers at their children for studying hard or else 'this' would become of them. 'This' being the strange, haphazard look I had going on. It wasn't my fault though, that I was like this. It wasn't because I hadn't studied hard. If I had had the chance to take a book and study I would've, believe me. There's only so many options you get when you are an outcast trying to start a new life in a new place. The city could've been beautiful, with its wispy, bakery scent and the neon lights shining on doors ringing with chiming bells but the contaminated, self-centred, very opinionated people ruined the whole look. I was still walking, in the too-big shoes I had on that had stopped biting at my feet just a couple of days ago, when I saw the plumpy old baker across the street coming out of his store with a huge grin and a tray of blackish looking muffins. Bingo. I ran zig-zaggedy through the crowd, making sure I didn't step on anyone's conceited feet because that would cause too much trouble and I had personal beliefs of having a trouble-free life.

"Mr Bonchance, Mr Bonchance! Oh please don't throw those away! They look absolutely enchanting!" I pleaded, halting in front of him with a screech. The orange tabby cat napping next to the dustbin woke up with a start, and strutted away. I swear she glared at me before that though. I'm usually not a very rowdy or noisy person. It's just that when you see that the best and kindest baker of the entire city has ruined a batch and you catch him just before he throws them away, there's a certain kind of thrill and accomplishment to it.

"Annie bonjour! Comme ça va?" Leave it to Mr Bonchance to stop for small useless chit-chat. I glanced at the tray in his hand with a look of yearning before meeting his gaze. Mr Bonchance was a funny man. He had that typical kind of aura that the fun next-door neighbours have on cartoon shows. His eyes were crinkly. From the street rumours that I had heard, his crinkles were because he was growing too old but personally I just thought he smiled too much. His belly was the definition of a pot-belly but somehow, that made him seem all the more nicer. I couldn't imagine a Mr Bonchance without a fat tummy. It was the essence of his personality. I always thought his name was rather odd, not just because it meant 'good luck' in French but because every time someone would call him, they would just be wishing him luck. What if Mr Bonchance and someone else were having a conversation that went like,