FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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"MRS. ROMANO, PLEASE!" I say, but she's already ushering me out the back of her restaurant. Remorse is written in the lines of her aging face as she gives me a final push into the alley.
"Don't come back here, Lucy. We can't offer you any more work. If we get caught employing someone like you, it could be trouble for my business. I'm sorry, I really am."
She shuts the door, leaving me out here with the snow and dumpsters. The streetlight above me illuminates the alley, drowning out any sign of the stars.
Blowing out a cloud, I hug my arms over the jacket Angel Boy gave me. I knew coming here was a stupid idea, but I wanted to make one last-ditch effort to get Mrs. Romano to rehire me. A few months ago, she paid me under the table to clean dishes and mop floors, but ended up getting audited. I hid in the closet while the inspector was there, and after that, she got paranoid. I can't blame her. I have no ID, no social security number. On paper, I'm a ghost, so of course no one can hire me.
But sometimes I wish someone would give me a chance anyway.
I've been hungry for so long that the pain has started to feel more like nausea. I managed to get a granola bar and some chips over the past day, but I need a real meal. The foodbank is too far to walk from here, and they barely give me anything that doesn't involve a can opener and a microwave anyway. I lean against the brick wall of the back alley, the smell of garbage rotting beside me, and allow the despair to weigh me down. But only for a moment.
There's still one more way for me to make money. One thing I've been avoiding trying, but I'm out of options here, I really am. With a sigh, I pick myself up and keep moving.
Snow crunches beneath my boots as I merge with the chaos of downtown. I stuff my bangs into my hood and keep my head low so no one will recognize me. With Slater back in town, I need to be extra careful about where I show my face. West of downtown is generally off-limits, but that's where Jim's pawn shop is, so I have to risk it.
Cold as it is, there's this air quality in the winter, like the snow and ice are filtering all Godfrey's pollution. On the horizon, the sky is a gradient of pale yellow to dark blue. As I turn onto Oakland Street, the soft melody of an acoustic guitar drifts through the air. On the corner, beneath a flickering McDonald's sign, an old man strums away and belts out the lyrics to Take Me Home, Country Roads. Despite his obvious talent, there are barely any coins in his case. I have nothing to give him either.
When I was a little girl, in a life so distant sometimes I wonder if it was ever real, my mother and I were walking around in the south end when we heard music. A man sat at the corner of Fifth and Main with an acoustic guitar, just like the man I'm seeing now, but he'd collected way more coins. Fascinated, I had asked my mother, "Can I make money like that someday?"
