Leo woke to the gray, morning light filtering through the grime on the shack's single window. He moved with the practiced silence of a small animal trying to avoid a predator. His mother was still in bed, surrounded by a constellation of empty bottles—the source of the unknown, sour stench that seemed to seep into the wood and plaster of the walls, clinging to everything. He slipped out of the room, careful not to disturb the thin blanket of sleep that kept her violence contained.
The cabinets were bare, the fridge was an empty, humming sarcophagus. Survival depended on resourcefulness. He went to his secret hiding spot—a loose floorboard under his worn rug—and pulled out a wrinkled, but gloriously intact, Pop-Tart he'd managed to smuggle home from school lunch weeks ago. It was his insurance policy, and he ate it slowly, making every crumb count.
It was the beginning of October, and outside the apartment complex, the air was crisp. But as Leo walked, he was intensely aware of the difference between the clean, autumn chill and the faint, persistent odor clinging to his clothes and hair. In class, the shame was amplified when teachers made their well-meaning, generic announcements. "Class, remember that showering is important for health!" The words were neutral, but he felt the shift of eyes, the subtle, knowing glances of his peers.
But there was one haven. His homeroom teacher, Ms. Ramirez, had a quiet, unlabeled station tucked away by the bookshelves: deodorant, spray, and cologne, all simple drug store brands, available for anyone who needed a refresh. He was profoundly grateful for her simple, non-judgmental kindness. He used it when he absolutely had to, trying to spray as little as possible. He worried that overuse would become a nuisance, a troublesome expense she'd come to resent, just another reason for an adult to hate him. He tried to repay her, lingering after school to wipe down desks, but she always insisted, with a gentle smile, that he was no trouble at all.
"I understand where you're coming from, Leo," she once said.
How can she? he thought, nodding politely because he didn't dare be rude. It was just the way the world was. Every spotlight casts a shadow, and asking for help felt like stepping into that light, exposing the darkness he lived in, opening himself up to judgment. He knew the adult world got tired of excuses and complaints; they pretended to be understanding, but were they, really?
At the cafeteria, he navigated the free lunch line. He was an expert scavenger, saving any item that came in its own packaging—an individually wrapped cracker packet, a small bag of baby carrots. These went into the Ziploc bag he always kept hidden inside his backpack, destined for a later meal. Sometimes, a shadow fell over his tray. It was Kelvin, the boy from the restroom stall, who would simply reach over, snatch the crackers, and walk off, leaving Leo to swallow his hunger and his humiliation in silence.
In English class, the day crawled. Ms. Ramirez was talking about plot: the beginning, middle, and end. She explained it was the driving force of a story. Leo frowned, struggling to grasp the concept. If life was meant to be like a book, neatly organized with a purpose, then why was his so chaotic and hard? She moved on to theme, holding up a picture book called Three Hens and a Peacock.
"What is the story about?" she asked the class.
Isn't it just about a peacock and three hens? Leo thought blankly.
"What is the lesson, the theme, in the story?"
He raised his hand tentatively. "The peacock… was mad?" he whispered, his own life offering no guidance on lessons beyond survival.