Left
middle grade contemporary novel in development
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(download ten pages in docx format at the end of this page)
Chapter 1—SaveSmart
“Wake up, sweetie.” A hand is shaking my shoulder, and my eyes don’t want to open. I’m looking at her sideways as she comes into focus. My neck hurts, my shoulder hurts, and my stomach growls. “You can’t sleep in here,” she says.
The name Tenisha is written with marker on her SaveSmart nametag. Her eyebrows lift and her chin juts forward, waiting for me to speak. Concerned or annoyed? I uncurl myself from the hard seat of the dressing room, pushing up from the furry pink jacket I used as a pillow. The floor is covered with hanks of my black hair, part of a chocolate bunny, and several Blake’s Snack Cake wrappers.
Tenisha starts tapping her foot, turning her head towards the check-in station. She shakes her head, then sits down next to me and asks, “What’s your name, sweetie? Where’s your mama?”
I’m groggy from sleeping badly, and my brain doesn’t want to form sentences. I don’t think I can trust Tenisha. Or anyone. I look at the Blake’s wrappers littering the floor. “My name’s . . . Blake. I don’t have a mama. I don’t have anybody.”
“What are you talking about, child?” Tenisha stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Everybody’s got someone. I don’t have time for such nonsense.”
She calls for a security guard, and then just watches me from the doorway, like I might run away. Not that I have any place to go. I stand up anyway.
I smooth down the rumpled skirt of my dress, which does nothing to hide the frayed spot near the hem. I re-tie the bow in the back so the dress won’t be so baggy. I look pale in the dressing room mirror. Maybe it’s the awful lighting?
I wiggle my hand into a small sequined purse, past the zipper stuck halfway open, to pull out a comb. It’s missing a few teeth. I push it through what’s left of my thick, wavy black hair. The comb does nothing to smooth out the very bad haircut. The left side almost covers my ear and the other side is longer, but ragged. The bangs are shorter on the right, probably because I’m left-handed, and it was super awkward cutting with right-handed scissors, which was all I could find in the sewing department here at SaveSmart. I used to pull my hair over my face when I was scared. I thought short hair might give me confidence. I’m such a loser.
The security guard arrives, and he walks me to a small office with no windows. “Sit,” he commands, and I plunk down on a hard plastic chair. My stomach rumbles again, competing with the static from his walkie talkie. He just stares at me until a gray haired woman with bedazzled glasses arrives. She sits behind a desk, facing me, and pulls out a pad of paper as the guy leaves.
“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Palmer. What’s your name?” Her pen hovers over the paper.
“Blake,” I say, with a bit more confidence than before.
“You got a last name?”
The wall clock behind her says 9:42. It’s a Westclox. “West, Blake West.”
She writes in quick cursive, barely looking at the paper. “Who can we call to come get you, Blake West?”
I look at my hands, pressed into my lap. “There’s no one.” I sneak a peek without lifting my head, just to see if she’s buying it.
Mrs. Palmer sighs and shakes her head. She’s wearing so much hairspray, her old lady hair doesn’t even flutter. “How old are you, Blake?”
“Eleven,” I mumble, fingering a loose sequin on my purse.
“Are you a runaway?”
I shake my head, looking up slightly, but not enough to meet her eyes.
“If you won’t talk to me, I’ll have to call Child Protective Services. Is that what you want, to go into the system?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but there’s no going back, so I nod a little and look at my scuffed shoes. The left one is missing a bow. Sadness crashes over me unexpectedly, and I blink back a tear. Who cries about shoes?
Mrs. Palmer pushes a tissue box towards me and picks up the phone. My stomach whimpers softly, and now I really need to pee. I stand up, not sure which way to go.
“Sit right back down.” Mrs. Palmer looks at me over her glasses. “Someone will be here soon.”
“But . . .” She glares me into silence. I stroke the pink fur of my jacket, picking at a sticky spot where I must have drooled in my sleep. I keep shifting around, trying not to think about peeing. Trying not to think about what might happen next.
Two police officers arrive wearing uniforms that say Fairfax County. That’s in Virginia. Maybe that will make it harder for them to track me back to Maryland.
“This is Blake West,” Mrs. Palmer waves at my chair. “She says she has no one for you to call.”
“I’m Grace Thomas,” the taller officer says. “This is Renata Garcia.” She points to the other officer.
“You can call me Ren,” the shorter one says.” We’re here to help you find your family.”
Mrs. Palmer butts in, “She’s not talking.” Ren ignores her.
“How long have you been here, Blake?” Ren asks, sitting down in the only empty chair.
“Overnight.” I hope that doesn’t make me a criminal. “I’m sorry about taking the scissors and the food. I can put the scissors back.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Grace says.
Ren stands up. “Come with us,” she says.
As I stand, I say, “Please, I need to use the restroom.”
The two officers exchange a look. They don’t trust me. I guess it’s their job not to trust. I’m bouncing side to side, trying not to wet myself, and Grace breaks out into a sympathetic smile. “Okay, but I’ll be standing right outside the stall, so don’t even think about running off.”
She’s wearing a gun. I wonder if she’s ever used it. I’m pretty quick in the bathroom, but I’m afraid to come out of the stall. I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. Grace taps on the metal door. “What’s taking so long? We’ve got things to do.”
The next thing I know, we’re getting into the squad car, with the police up front and me in the back. Like a criminal, but without the handcuffs. It’s a tiny bit exciting, but mostly it smells weird, and the seat is lumpy. The door is all scratched up, and the back of Ren’s seat has words scribbled on it—words I’ve never been allowed to say.
My stomach gurgles so hard, Ren can probably see it moving underneath my dress. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to stop for breakfast,” she says, digging through the glove box. She hands me a granola bar.
“Thanks!” I say, reaching for it with my left hand.
“You’re left-handed,” Ren says. “I’m a lefty, too. It makes me a better cop.”
Grace groans. “Not that, again! It only makes you think you’re better.”
The granola bar tastes like sandpaper, but I force it down, and then lick the wrapper. I’m still hungry. I try not to touch too much in the back of the car. From the way it smells, it’s a garden of germs. I hope we’re almost there. Wherever there is.
When we arrive at the McLean District police station, Grace shows me her desk.
“Still hungry?” she asks.
“Thirsty,” I reply. I don’t think I could choke down another dry granola bar.
“Keep an eye on her, will ya,” she says to Ren, whose desk is pushed up against Grace’s.
Grace comes back, handing me a bottle of water and a Blake’s Snack Cake. “Mrs. Palmer told me you like these,” she says. “The social worker will be here soon. Need anything else?”
I shake my head, and then gulp down water until the bottle is half empty. Great, now I’ll have to pee again. I pick at the wrapper on the snack cake, but I ate too many last night. “Can I have a banana?” I ask Grace.
She looks at Ren. “We probably have one in the breakroom,” Ren says.
“Okay, okay,” says Grace. “I’ll be right back.”
She hands me a speckled banana, which is just the way I like them. I gobble it down.
“You’re quite the little monkey,” says Ren. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you. I’m good,” I say. In truth, my head is spinning. Phones keep ringing, and there is a non-stop clacking of keyboards. I have no idea what will happen next. I didn’t plan this whole thing out.
“Wake up, sweetie.” A hand is shaking my shoulder, and my eyes don’t want to open. I’m looking at her sideways as she comes into focus. My neck hurts, my shoulder hurts, and my stomach growls. “You can’t sleep in here,” she says.
The name Tenisha is written with marker on her SaveSmart nametag. Her eyebrows lift and her chin juts forward, waiting for me to speak. Concerned or annoyed? I uncurl myself from the hard seat of the dressing room, pushing up from the furry pink jacket I used as a pillow. The floor is covered with hanks of my black hair, part of a chocolate bunny, and several Blake’s Snack Cake wrappers.
Tenisha starts tapping her foot, turning her head towards the check-in station. She shakes her head, then sits down next to me and asks, “What’s your name, sweetie? Where’s your mama?”
I’m groggy from sleeping badly, and my brain doesn’t want to form sentences. I don’t think I can trust Tenisha. Or anyone. I look at the Blake’s wrappers littering the floor. “My name’s . . . Blake. I don’t have a mama. I don’t have anybody.”
“What are you talking about, child?” Tenisha stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Everybody’s got someone. I don’t have time for such nonsense.”
She calls for a security guard, and then just watches me from the doorway, like I might run away. Not that I have any place to go. I stand up anyway.
I smooth down the rumpled skirt of my dress, which does nothing to hide the frayed spot near the hem. I re-tie the bow in the back so the dress won’t be so baggy. I look pale in the dressing room mirror. Maybe it’s the awful lighting?
I wiggle my hand into a small sequined purse, past the zipper stuck halfway open, to pull out a comb. It’s missing a few teeth. I push it through what’s left of my thick, wavy black hair. The comb does nothing to smooth out the very bad haircut. The left side almost covers my ear and the other side is longer, but ragged. The bangs are shorter on the right, probably because I’m left-handed, and it was super awkward cutting with right-handed scissors, which was all I could find in the sewing department here at SaveSmart. I used to pull my hair over my face when I was scared. I thought short hair might give me confidence. I’m such a loser.
The security guard arrives, and he walks me to a small office with no windows. “Sit,” he commands, and I plunk down on a hard plastic chair. My stomach rumbles again, competing with the static from his walkie talkie. He just stares at me until a gray haired woman with bedazzled glasses arrives. She sits behind a desk, facing me, and pulls out a pad of paper as the guy leaves.
“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Palmer. What’s your name?” Her pen hovers over the paper.
“Blake,” I say, with a bit more confidence than before.
“You got a last name?”
The wall clock behind her says 9:42. It’s a Westclox. “West, Blake West.”
She writes in quick cursive, barely looking at the paper. “Who can we call to come get you, Blake West?”
I look at my hands, pressed into my lap. “There’s no one.” I sneak a peek without lifting my head, just to see if she’s buying it.
Mrs. Palmer sighs and shakes her head. She’s wearing so much hairspray, her old lady hair doesn’t even flutter. “How old are you, Blake?”
“Eleven,” I mumble, fingering a loose sequin on my purse.
“Are you a runaway?”
I shake my head, looking up slightly, but not enough to meet her eyes.
“If you won’t talk to me, I’ll have to call Child Protective Services. Is that what you want, to go into the system?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but there’s no going back, so I nod a little and look at my scuffed shoes. The left one is missing a bow. Sadness crashes over me unexpectedly, and I blink back a tear. Who cries about shoes?
Mrs. Palmer pushes a tissue box towards me and picks up the phone. My stomach whimpers softly, and now I really need to pee. I stand up, not sure which way to go.
“Sit right back down.” Mrs. Palmer looks at me over her glasses. “Someone will be here soon.”
“But . . .” She glares me into silence. I stroke the pink fur of my jacket, picking at a sticky spot where I must have drooled in my sleep. I keep shifting around, trying not to think about peeing. Trying not to think about what might happen next.
Two police officers arrive wearing uniforms that say Fairfax County. That’s in Virginia. Maybe that will make it harder for them to track me back to Maryland.
“This is Blake West,” Mrs. Palmer waves at my chair. “She says she has no one for you to call.”
“I’m Grace Thomas,” the taller officer says. “This is Renata Garcia.” She points to the other officer.
“You can call me Ren,” the shorter one says.” We’re here to help you find your family.”
Mrs. Palmer butts in, “She’s not talking.” Ren ignores her.
“How long have you been here, Blake?” Ren asks, sitting down in the only empty chair.
“Overnight.” I hope that doesn’t make me a criminal. “I’m sorry about taking the scissors and the food. I can put the scissors back.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Grace says.
Ren stands up. “Come with us,” she says.
As I stand, I say, “Please, I need to use the restroom.”
The two officers exchange a look. They don’t trust me. I guess it’s their job not to trust. I’m bouncing side to side, trying not to wet myself, and Grace breaks out into a sympathetic smile. “Okay, but I’ll be standing right outside the stall, so don’t even think about running off.”
She’s wearing a gun. I wonder if she’s ever used it. I’m pretty quick in the bathroom, but I’m afraid to come out of the stall. I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. Grace taps on the metal door. “What’s taking so long? We’ve got things to do.”
The next thing I know, we’re getting into the squad car, with the police up front and me in the back. Like a criminal, but without the handcuffs. It’s a tiny bit exciting, but mostly it smells weird, and the seat is lumpy. The door is all scratched up, and the back of Ren’s seat has words scribbled on it—words I’ve never been allowed to say.
My stomach gurgles so hard, Ren can probably see it moving underneath my dress. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to stop for breakfast,” she says, digging through the glove box. She hands me a granola bar.
“Thanks!” I say, reaching for it with my left hand.
“You’re left-handed,” Ren says. “I’m a lefty, too. It makes me a better cop.”
Grace groans. “Not that, again! It only makes you think you’re better.”
The granola bar tastes like sandpaper, but I force it down, and then lick the wrapper. I’m still hungry. I try not to touch too much in the back of the car. From the way it smells, it’s a garden of germs. I hope we’re almost there. Wherever there is.
When we arrive at the McLean District police station, Grace shows me her desk.
“Still hungry?” she asks.
“Thirsty,” I reply. I don’t think I could choke down another dry granola bar.
“Keep an eye on her, will ya,” she says to Ren, whose desk is pushed up against Grace’s.
Grace comes back, handing me a bottle of water and a Blake’s Snack Cake. “Mrs. Palmer told me you like these,” she says. “The social worker will be here soon. Need anything else?”
I shake my head, and then gulp down water until the bottle is half empty. Great, now I’ll have to pee again. I pick at the wrapper on the snack cake, but I ate too many last night. “Can I have a banana?” I ask Grace.
She looks at Ren. “We probably have one in the breakroom,” Ren says.
“Okay, okay,” says Grace. “I’ll be right back.”
She hands me a speckled banana, which is just the way I like them. I gobble it down.
“You’re quite the little monkey,” says Ren. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you. I’m good,” I say. In truth, my head is spinning. Phones keep ringing, and there is a non-stop clacking of keyboards. I have no idea what will happen next. I didn’t plan this whole thing out.