Free Lunch Read online

  FREE

  LUNCH

  REX OGLE

  Norton Young Readers

  An Imprint of W.W. Norton & Company

  Independent Publishers Since 1923

  This book is for every kid,

  whether they pay for their lunch or not.

  COUPONS

  My stomach growls. This morning, I skipped breakfast, though not ’cause I want to. When Mom steers our old two-door Toyota hatchback into a parking space in front of Kroger, I mumble, “I hate grocery shopping.”

  “Well, how else are we going to eat?” Mom says.

  “Eat what? You never get anything I like.”

  “When you get a job and start paying for the groceries yourself, you can buy whatever you want.”

  “I can’t get a job, I’m a kid.”

  “Sounds like your problem. Not mine.”

  “When Liam goes to the store with his mom, she lets him get anything he wants. Pop-Tarts, Toaster Strudel, Twix bars, Pringles, whatever.”

  “That’s because Liam is a spoiled brat. And his mom is rich.”

  “They aren’t rich just because they live in a house.”

  “Well, they’re richer than us!” Mom shouts. She gets out of the car and slams the door. I don’t take off my seat belt. Mom storms around the car and tries to open the door. It takes a second ’cause it has a big dent in the side that catches every time. Metal wrenches against metal when she jerks it open. “Get out of the car!”

  “Can I get just one thing I want?”

  “You can get an ass-whoopin’ if you don’t get out of the car this minute.”

  Not budging, I stare straight ahead. My arms cross like a shield. I don’t know why I get so angry about this stuff. This is how it’s been my whole life. But some days—some days I hate my life, and I feel like fighting. Fighting my mom, fighting other kids, fighting the world. Doesn’t matter. Just something to take the sting out of me being so broke.

  “I’m going to count to three!” Mom growls through gritted teeth. I see her fingers curl into her palms, making fists. “One—”

  “Fine!” I shout back. I get out of the car and slam the broken door, the metal catching like robot nails on a chalkboard. Usually, I stand my ground. But when Mom gets that red look in her eyes, I know . . . it’s better to stop arguing.

  I pull a shopping cart from the pen. One of the wheels is wonky and spins left and right instead of rolling straight. I consider putting it back, getting a new one, but then I feel bad for it. It’s not the cart’s fault it’s messed up.

  We make our way down one aisle and then another. My mouth is watering. There’s aisles full of food—peanut butter, pasta, stuff to make tacos or burgers, all kinds of cereal, practically a thousand kinds of chips and dips and salsas, then cookies, Chex mix, beef jerky, fried mozzarella sticks, waffles, Granny Smith apple pies, donuts, dozens of different flavors of ice cream.

  And I can’t get any of it.

  I know better than to ask for anything. Mom’s answer is always “No.” Or “No way.” Or “Are you crazy? Put it back. It’s too expensive.”

  It’s crazy to say a bag of potato chips is too expensive. A whole bag costs, like, four bucks. That seems like a lot of money, but it can be ten little meals. That’s only like forty cents each.

  Now my stomach is really growling and grumbling. I try to ignore it as I push the empty cart behind Mom. This morning, we only had enough Cheerios and milk for like half a person. I got up first, and I could have eaten it. I didn’t though. I saved them for Ford. He’s my baby brother, and he’s only two. So he needs it more.

  Mom shoves an open envelope into my hand. Inside is an overdue bill. I ask, “What’s this for?”

  “On the back, stupid,” she says.

  On the back is a grocery list. Mom’s tall, loopy, cursive handwriting is hard to read, but it says all the stuff we need. Milk. Cereal. Bread. That kinda junk. My mom usually sticks to the list, but some days she changes her mind based on the yellow signs for today’s specials or clearance items.

  “Look! This ground beef is on sale for a dollar!” she says.

  The meat is all weird brown though. I scrunch my face. “Raw beef’s supposed to be pink.”

  Mom rolls her eyes, throwing it in the cart. “It’s still good. Just cook it well done.”

  Turning from one aisle to the next, I see the lady with free samples. I leave the cart behind to run over. With a smile, she asks, “Would you like to try a Maplewood Sausage?”

  I grab a toothpick-stabbed mini-bite, dip it in the mustard, and shove the whole thing in my mouth. I savor the juicy explosion of flavor. But it’s gone too soon. Before the lady can object, I take two more. I make sure to smile and say “Thank you.”

  “Mom, free samples.” I point. “It’s so good. Can we buy some?”

  Mom ignores me. Too busy digging through her folder of coupons. She spends all day Sunday, every Sunday, cutting coupons out of the newspaper. Then she makes sure we only go grocery shopping on Tuesdays. Tuesdays are Double-Coupon Day.

  “Yes!” Mom says in victory. “This coupon is for two dollars off! Double, that means four dollars in savings!”

  “Since you’re saving four dollars, can we get a box of mac-n-cheese?”

  “No.”

  “But it’s Ford’s favorite.”

  “He’s a toddler, he doesn’t have a favorite anything.”

  When we round the next corner, there’s another samples person. This guy has cheese and crackers. But there’s no sign that says Free. Trying to be polite, I ask, “Are these free?”

  He gives me a dirty look. “If you’re going to buy some.”

  “Hey!” my mom shouts. “I don’t see a sign saying anything about buying nothing. Rex, go ahead. Have as many as you want.”

  I feel my face redden. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to be rude. I take the smallest cracker with a little square of cheese on it. I whisper, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank him,” Mom snaps at me, glaring at him. “He thinks he’s so much better than us, but he’s the one selling cheese.”

  The cheese man mutters under his breath, “Trailer trash.”

  “We don’t live in a trailer anymore!” Mom shouts at him. “So there!”

  She takes control of the cart and pushes us away. I’m relieved. For a second, I thought she was going to pick a fight. It wouldn’t be the first time. My mom doesn’t shy away from much. Especially confrontation.

  As we move toward the checkout, a few minutes later, Mom is still agitated, talking to herself like a crazy person. “—looking down on us. He doesn’t even know me. He doesn’t know my situation. Thinks he’s so much better than us. Screw him.”

  At the register, I transfer the items from the cart onto the conveyor belt. The cashier watches me as I look at the candy racks. Cashiers always look at me like they’re watching to see if I’ll steal something. Like I’m guilty, ’cause my clothes are from a secondhand store.

  While the cashier rings up stuff, Mom pulls out her wallet. She’s counting money, except the money looks different from usual. I’ve never seen it before. It looks like toy money, like from that game Monopoly. It’s all bright colored, and says FOOD COUPON.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mom snaps. She pushes me toward the end of the counter. “Don’t just stand there being lazy. Bag the groceries.”

  The cashier finishes scanning, then does the discount for the coupons. She says the total. Mom hands her the weird, fake-looking money. The cashier punches some buttons and says, “After the food stamps, you owe ten dollars and thirty-eight cents.”

  “What are food stamps?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mom repeats,
but this time, she scowls at me.

  Stamps are for the post office. So I wonder if my mom is going to mail our food home. But that doesn’t make any sense. We drove here, so we can drive the groceries home like normal.

  Mom pours all the cash and change out of her wallet. She unwrinkles eight one-dollar bills, then counts out 97 cents, mostly in pennies. Her hands tense up, her fingers looking like talons. She says, “I’m a little short.”

  The cashier shrugs, but really she’s all annoyed. I can see it in her face. The woman behind us, with a full cart, throws up her arms and goes, “What is taking so long?” The man in line next to us clears his throat. It feels like everyone is staring at us, frustrated. Mom’s face is strained, a vein popping out of her forehead. Suddenly, she seems embarrassed. I feel embarrassed too.

  Mom snatches the loaf of bread from the top of the brown bag. She shoves it toward the cashier. “There! Take that off. Happy?”

  Shopping is always like this. But for some reason, this time is worse. Maybe ’cause of the food stamps? Mom looks ashamed. People are staring. Then, I look at our shopping list. We didn’t even get halfway down. We can’t afford all our groceries.

  Silence hangs between Mom and me. I carry the one bag to the car and put it in the back. When I get into the front seat, Mom starts crying. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything.

  We sit there for a long time.

  When I reach out, to put my hand on her hand, she slaps it away. “Don’t touch me! This is your fault! Do you know how expensive it is to raise an ungrateful brat?!”

  I feel sick to my stomach. I don’t know if it’s ’cause I’m angry, or sad, or just hungry. Probably it’s all three.

  Ministers and priests and Buddhist monks and talk-show hosts—all those people who are supposed to be real smart and wise and stuff—always say dumb things like “Money isn’t everything,” or “The best things in life are free.” But they’re wrong.

  Money is everything.

  The best things in life aren’t free.

  And don’t say something stupid like “Love is free.” ’Cause it’s not. It costs money to take care of the people you love. When Mom isn’t working, she’s always upset and sad and she can’t love me like a normal mom. She gets mad at every little thing. No job means no money, which means no groceries or electricity. That makes all the love go out of my mom, like air out of a balloon. And who wants an empty balloon?

  When Mom’s working, she’s nicer. She definitely loves me more when she has money. ’Cause she can afford groceries, and pay rent on time, bills too, all that junk—she can think straight. She remembers she cares about me.

  So don’t tell me love is free. ’Cause I know. Nothing in this world is free. Every little thing costs something.

  But for some reason, things cost a whole lot more when you’re poor.

  MIDDLE SCHOOL

  I’m making sure I have everything for my first day at school tomorrow. I write down a checklist, which is kinda nerdy, but I know something is missing. The list says:

  • Class schedule

  • Locker number

  • Lock and lock combination

  • Backpack

  • Pens

  • Notebook

  • House keys

  I go over the list a bunch of times. What’s missing? I get in bed at ten, but I know I won’t sleep if I don’t figure it out. Sometimes I get an idea in my mind and can’t shut it off, and it just keeps going and going until I wanna scream. That’s how I feel right now.

  I can’t sleep, so I get up. I pace back and forth in my room, trying to remember. I have a lot of space to do that. ’Cause I don’t have any furniture, just a sleeping bag on the floor. I sit down again and look at my class schedule. I’m excited about this year. Some kids don’t like school, but I’d rather be there than here at home.

  In middle school, you get two electives that you get to choose yourself. Mom told me to take home economics. But that sounded stupid. I already do all that stuff at home—cooking, cleaning, taking care of a baby, balancing Mom’s checkbook—I don’t want to do it at school too. Instead, I chose art. Like painting and drawing.

  Around eleven, I finally remember what I need—lunch money.

  In the living room, Mom and Sam are on the couch, cuddled up. The TV is on, but they’re whispering and giggling about something else.

  “Hey, Mom—”

  “What are you doing up?” she snaps. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “I forgot my lunch money.”

  Mom nudges Sam, saying, “This kid is always ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme.’ Ugh.” They both laugh.

  “No, I’m not,” I argue. “But I need lunch money. I have to eat.”

  “D-d-do you?” Sam stutters. He’s not making fun of me, that’s just how he talks. “M-my d-d-dad used to m-make m-me work f-for lunch m-money.”

  Mom smiles this cruel smile, saying, “Did you know, a hundred years ago, parents just kicked their kids out on the street? They had to fend for themselves. Like ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ Too bad it’s not still like that.”

  “Yeah, too bad,” I say. “Can you just give me my lunch money, so I can go to bed?”

  “You don’t need lunch money this year.” Mom turns around, going back to the TV show. “You’re in the Free Lunch Program.”

  “The what?” I ask.

  Mom grunts, annoyed that she has to explain. “It’s a program where poor people don’t have to pay for their kids’ food. Manuela’s mom told me about it in the laundry room, so I enrolled you.”

  “What? Why can’t you just pay for my lunch? We’re not that poor.”

  Mom practically flies off the couch and grabs my arm. Squeezing so hard, her fingers dig past the muscle and into the bone. “Why don’t you pay for your lunch? Or better yet, call your father and ask him to pay for it?”

  “He sends a child-support check every month,” I yell. “Isn’t that what it’s for? To feed me?”

  “You are fed!” Mom screams, shaking me hard. “And you’re clothed, you have a roof over your head, you don’t have to work! That’s more than a lot of people have, you spoiled little brat!”

  I try to wrench myself free, but can’t. So I scream back at her, “How can I be spoiled when I live in this dump with you?”

  I shouldn’t have said that. I know it the second it comes out of my mouth. But you can’t unsay things. The stuff that happens next—

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  FAMILY

  My oldest memory is of my parents fighting. Not Sam. I mean Mom and my real dad. Before they got a divorce.

  The three of us lived in this trailer park in San Antonio. When they fought, the entire trailer would shake. It felt like an earthquake, like the world was falling apart as the gods pounded on each other. Like their battle might rattle the universe until everything was destroyed. Then I’d be left alone in the darkness of space.

  Dad left when I was five. Mom had a bunch of boyfriends after that. Each one more of a jerk than the next. Then she met Sam. He was the maintenance man for our apartment complex. At first he was all nice and taught me how to ride a bike and swim real good and took me out for pizza. Then he started hitting my mom.

  I kept hoping he would go away. Then they had Ford, who was named after Sam’s favorite car (which seems kinda weird to me). Having the same mom makes Ford my baby brother. He’s not a baby, but he sure acts like it. He’s two and a half and about the most annoying kid I’ve ever met. I still love him though, ’cause he’s my brother so I have to. Even when he destroys my stuff.

  I have to watch Ford all the time, and take care of him too. Every day, I make his food, let him watch dumb baby shows instead of my shows, and play with him and stuff. I’m trying to teach him to read, and he can, a little. He’s real smart. But when he doesn’t get his way, he screams bloody murder! It’s so annoying. I’m glad I finally potty trained him. Now I don’t have to change his diapers anymore. That was di
sgusting.

  Still, it’s not fun to spend all my free time watching him. Especially when my friends are out riding bikes and seeing movies and doing cool stuff, you know? So yeah.

  Sam has been around for five years now. He says he’s my stepdad, but he’s not. Him and my mom aren’t even married.

  One time, he was real drunk, and like, half passed-out on the couch. I got all curious and asked why he stuck around, especially ’cause all him and Mom do is fight. He said, “F-f-for Ford.” I guess a lot of parents do that, stick around for their kids.

  My dad didn’t do that though. He left me behind. No problem.

  After a few years in San Marcos, Mom decided to move. Sam and her moved us around a bunch till we got here. Since getting to Birmingham, Mom and Sam fight more than usual. Sometimes it’s about stupid stuff. Usually it’s about money. Probably ’cause both of them can’t find work.

  Mom says getting a job is harder than it sounds. Which is weird, ’cause restaurants always have fliers up for dishwashers. How hard can it be to wash dishes? I do it all the time and no one pays me.

  Help Wanted signs are all over town. There’s even a bunch of listings in a “Jobs” section in the newspaper. I tried to help once, by going through the paper and circling a bunch of things that sounded OK. Mom got all pissed. She shouted, “I’m not doing that crap!”

  Sam got all mad too, and was all like, “Th-that j-job’s for Sp-spics, for y-your p-people. Me? I’m wh-wh-white. I d-deserve b-better.”

  Sam and Mom don’t have jobs right now.

  Anyway. The four of us live in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. It’s nice I guess. We’re on the second floor so we get sunlight. And our porch overlooks the courtyard, where kids play and stuff.

  There’s no real furniture in our place except an itchy tweed couch and an old black-and-white TV. Sam found both behind a dumpster when we first moved here. He made me help carry them and I almost broke my back. Mom freaked ’cause of germs, and spent, like, two days cleaning them over and over. Oh, and I guess Sam and Mom have a bed that someone gave them. Ford sleeps with them.