I got good at disappearing.
At not asking. At never needing anything, not even food.
School wasn’t a safe place either. Poverty clings to kids like smoke.
The other girls could sniff it on my thrift-store jeans and my wrinkled shirts.
Teachers tried to help, but only made things worse. I didn’t talk much, smile, or get invited anywhere.
And then, one freezing afternoon, when I was 11, I saw her.
I was walking home from school because, as usual, the car wasn’t “working again.” That was my mom’s excuse for being too broke to buy gas.
My hands were tucked into my sleeves, teeth clenched, and all I could think about was whether the heat would be on when I got home.
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