Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [53]
I take a seat, rub my hands together and think. What do I do for food? For money? Last night at the train station was a wakeup. Whenever I begged before, it was for fun, to see if I could do it, and I had way better luck. Usually enough for a movie within half an hour. It’s weird, but wanting something so bad it hurts makes it harder to get.
Right now I need to eat. As soon as I’m warm I’ll set up shop outside the front door and guilt the suits leaving for work. Then, in the afternoon, I can find a strip mall, beg outside an electronics store. That way I can watch the TVs through the window if I’m bored.
Someone’s staring at me.
I look up in panic and see what passes for the manager—this twenty-something guy in a red-and-white striped shirt and a clip-on bow tie. His hair’s all slicked back and he has a big Adam’s apple. He points to a sign with block letters and announces in this official voice, “Tables for customers only.”
“Thanks a lot,” I go, all sarcastic, “but I can read, Dale.”
He looks surprised, like he’s thinking, How does she know my name?
I point at his name tag: “Hi, My Name Is Dale.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I pull out my wallet. “As a matter of fact, I’m here to order two dozen donuts for my dad. So you better apologize or he’ll drop by later and talk to your boss.”
Dale’s face goes blotchy. “Sorry.”
I give him a smirk and join the lineup. I’m glad it’s long. I don’t have any money and this way I have a while longer to warm up. Also to breathe in the cigarettes. There’s so much smoke in here it’s like puffing a pack.
“How may I help you?” I look up. It’s “Hi, My Name Is Shirley.”
I’m at the front of the line. How did that happen? I hear myself say, “I’ll have six honey glazed, six walnut crullers, six chocolate glazed and six blueberry jelly, please.”
All of a sudden, there’s a box with two dozen donuts in front of me. I think about saying, These donuts are stale! and taking off. But they look so good and I’m so hungry I just grab the box and run.
Next thing I know, Shirley’s yelling, suits are blocking the door, I’m being held by drunks and Dale’s on the phone to the cops.
Thirty-Seven
Officer Maloney is fat with a notepad. He looks like the kind of guy who gets drunk and makes toasts at dinner parties. Officer Brant is his partner. She’d be okay if it weren’t for the coffee breath. They’re standing on either side of me out by the cruiser.
I’m too scared to look at their faces. Instead, I look at the windows of the donut shop. It seems we’re quite the topic of conversation, everyone nodding at each other and pointing. As for Dale, he’s strutting around like he’ll be getting a medal from Crimestoppers or something.
Officer Brant does the talking. “Could you show us some ID?” She looks like a kickboxer.
“Don’t have any.” I shove my hands into my pockets and move from side to side. It’s so cold.
“Do you have a name?”
“Uh, Melissa Johnson,” I say.
“Well, ‘Uh, Melissa Johnson,’ could you give us your real name?” Officer Brant doesn’t crack a smile, but I know she thinks she’s funny. So does Officer Maloney.
“My name’s Melissa Johnson,” I repeat, more confident this time.
“Where do you live?”
“At 162 Cranberry Street.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, that’s where I live.” I feel the cold come up through my sneakers.
Officer Brant gets in my face. The reek of Maxwell House makes me gag. “It looks to me like you’re underage.”
“No way. I’m eighteen.”
“When were you born?”
I get the year wrong. And I’m supposed to be good at math.
Now it’s Officer Maloney’s turn. “Look, ‘Melissa,’ either you tell us the truth or we arrest you for theft, vagrancy and interfering with a police investigation.”
“Over two dozen donuts?”
Maloney flips his notepad shut and goes to the car radio. Officer Brant stands there, arms folded, and watches me cry.
“Please. They got them back. What more do you want? Just let me go.”
Of course they don’t. There’s a Missing Persons bulletin matching my description. Talk about putting a move on. I heard somewhere cops normally wait a day after a person