Chapter One
Being alone in this world sucks, and don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s horrible as a little kid, and even worse as a teenager.
As I sat and stared at the small picture in my hand, one I’d keptin my jacket pocket for almost nine years now, my mind raced to California. I wished for maybe the thousandth time that I could just make my dad instantly appear by my bed and stand beside me like he was in the photograph.
But that was the way of fairy tales, and not the nightmare I lived on a daily basis.
“Meal time, ladies,” one of the older boys, Abe, called out. He always acted as if we were in the military rather than the orphanage we all lived in, The New York Charitable Orphanage for Wayward Boys and Girls. I wouldn’t say we called this place home, because I still had far better memories of a home, two homes in fact.
Unfortunately, fate had dealt me an ugly hand of cards, twice in a row, even worse than the ones Abe dealt us during our illegal poker games after lights were out for the night.
The younger boys all scurried to attention, satisfying Abe’s ‘Army’ illusions. I carefully tucked my personal treasure back into my pocket, and rose from my thin, fraying mattress.
Abe strolled down between the rows of equally outdated beds, gazing upon the troops. We were a motley bunch if you ever saw one. Everyone stood around in our dirty, hole-ridden hand-me-down rags donated by mining town children we often heard stories about from out west. I’d long since grown out of the clothes my grandmother had handmade for me almost a decade ago. Those shirts and slacks had supposedly been stuffed in a closet, waiting to be brought out once one of the younger boys grew into them. ‘Waste not, want not,’ the orphanage staff would always tell us. But since there had been plenty of younger kids come through the orphanage and I’d never seen my clothes reappear, I figured they’d sold them and pocketed the money.
People tell me I shouldn’t be so pessimistic.
Abe finished his morning inspection, then returned and stopped in front of my bed. “Whatcha have there, Max?” He extended his hand toward my pocket, waiting for me to produce its contents.
“None of your business, Abe, and you know it.”
Abraham Tate wasn’t really a bully, but sometimes power went to his head. That didn’t sit well, what with him being nosey and all. Plus, he seemed to think our lives were all like a plot in one of those ‘penny dreadfuls’ he was always reading.
The boy next to me snickered. “It’s a picture of his daddy.” Tommy Jacobson. Now he was a bully. Every now and again, he’d caught me looking at the photograph, one of my only possessions. A week or so ago, he’d nearly ripped it out of my hand for no good reason.We both gave each other black eyes that were finally turning from that sickly green and purple back to normal. The headmaster and his wife were none too pleased, let me tell you, having assigned both of us to privy cleanings for a month. At least they let me keep my picture, which surprised me.
“And Master and Mistress Tittlesworth both know about it,” I said. “Ask them.” I didn’t want him too, actually, because they threatened to take it away if there was another incident. I didn’t think Abe would call my bluff.
“Fine, fine. Have it your way.” Abe turned to face a giggling boy at the end of the row. “And what are you laughing at, Jules? You scrawny runt. I ought to box your ear for eavesdropping.”
My friend, Jules Baker, straightened up and tried to hide a grin. He was only twelve, an age where almost anything is funny.
Abe sighed and threw his hands in the air. “Let’s just line up without another fight, hey?” He glared at Tommy and me as we filed down for breakfast. The smell of fried ham, eggs, and coffeehad already made its way upstairs and my stomach rumbled in response.
