She’s not like those annoying rich kids, though. None of those idiots would be caught dead wearing shoes with holes in them or a shirt that has to be at least three sizes too big.

Still, the kid in front of me doesn’t look like she’s ever known what it’s like to be locked in a basement or what it feels like to have a heated fork brand her skin. I bet she gets tucked into bed every night, like in all those books the teachers read.

Spoiled brat.

The sharp sound of a zipper opening snags my attention. I watch her small hands pause for a second before digging into her bag to grab a worn stuffed toy. It’s some character from a show I watched once—when I was at a house that had a TV.

Something about a mouse. Or a rat. Macky Mouse or something?

Whatever the thing is, it looks just like the little earrings she has on. It’s like she’s obsessed with the pest. Troy set up traps all around the house to kill them.

Her eyes dart up to me, and I look down like she isn’t there. Happy—or at least not stiff and staring at a wall—she places the toy next to her with her delicate little hands and arranges its legs to sit upright by itself.

When she pulls out her lunch box (a ripped plastic bag), I can’t keep my attention hidden anymore.

What does she have? Is she one of those kids that gets a well-balanced diet with that triangle diagram thingy? Maybe she’s one of the lucky ones who gets leftover dinner for lunch. A kid at my other school got to bring takeout for lunch, and the ass would show it off to everyone in the class.

He stopped bringing them in once I started taking them from him.

Pigtails sets the plastic bag on the ground next to the toy. I wait with bated breath as she takes out the contents.

First, she pulls out two crackers—the ones that are drier than sand but do their job filling you up—and gives one to the toy as she nibbles on the other.

What the heck?

The thing isn’t real, and she’s giving her lunch to a toy? I knew she was spoiled, wasting food like that. If she isn’t going to eat it, then I will.

The mouse shrinks back when she catches me watching. But I don’t look away, tapping my pencil on the paper, waiting to see what else comes out of her lunch bag and if she’s going to waste that too.

I can already tell the next thing isn’t just a cracker. It’s too big to be. My mouth waters at all the possibilities of everything it could be.

My hunger doesn’t stop when she pulls out her pathetic-looking lunch. It’s just two thin slices of bread, partly squashed from sitting inside her bag without a container. Even though it doesn’t look like there might be anything inside, I’m still salivating.

I’m about to scream at her for being such a spoiled brat when she tears the bruised sandwich in two, squishing the butter through the rip. But my mouth slams shut when Pigtails holds her hand out, buttered bread offered to me as if I’m someone to be pitied.

“You shouldn’t share your food,” I bite out at the same time my stomach grumbles.

Her big eyes drop away from my face, and her bottom lip quivers again. Does this girl ever stop crying? Life sucks. Get over it. No use crying about it.

“Oh,” she says, voice so soft I almost miss it. “I thought—"

“Thought what?”

“I thought you were hungry,” she whispers, lowering the food onto the plastic bag directly between us.

She pulls out a reading book from her bag, and I watch her flip page after page while nibbling on her sandwich timidly. When the last bite disappears, she places the cracker next to the remaining bread and pulls the doll into her teeny arms, quietly reading her book.

It doesn’t matter how long I stare at her or how long I pretend to look away, my stomach doesn’t stop groaning, and she doesn’t spare a second glance at the remainder of her lunch—the same lunch sitting closer to me than her.

Tentatively, I inch my fingers toward the food, waiting for her to snatch it away from me as the other kids sometimes do. But she does the opposite. She gives me this sad little smile that kicks me in the gut when I take the first bite.

It’s awful. Both her sad look, and the crap I’m eating.

The bread is probably drier than the cracker next on my list of things to eat. The butter isn’t even spread properly, as Troy’s wife would. She always made sure she got the spread to every corner, and nothing was too clumpy or too thin, and it would always go into a container to stop it from becoming mush.

This tastes like a child made it, and the butter is only in the middle of the bread. I stuff the rest into my mouth, not bothering to savor it or enjoy the feeling of something other than water in my stomach, just in case Pigtails changes her mind.

Too caught up in filling my face, I miss the prickle of her stare until she finally asks, “What’s your name?”

Her voice is so soft and delicate, like a princess who always has flowers in her hair, a big puffy dress, and a blinding smile.

I run my tongue over my dry lips, trying to get some moisture on them after eating the driest food ever. My eyes drift to the drink bottle that’s now next to the plastic bag. It’s the super crinkly plastic kind from the grocery store that’s thrown away once it’s empty.

She shouldn’t be so giving. Someone is going to take advantage of it one day and hurt her.

“It doesn’t matter.” My nose wrinkles as I grab the bottle and inhale a healthy amount of the liquid, leaving her half of it. “I’ll be gone soon anyways.”

“Oh.”

She sounds sad. Why does she sound sad?

The bell rings, and she doesn’t waste time packing away her stuff and scurrying off like her tail is on fire.

The next day, I spot the pigtailed girl in the locker room again at the end of recess, standing in the corner while Skinny and Ugly laugh. Something in my stomach churns when I see the tears running down her cheeks, her face burning red like she’s been crying for a while. Then she wipes them away with her sleeve and hides behind her hair when the final bell rings.

I didn’t see her at the gap in the corner during the break. I thought she found another place where she could hide from the world.

I guess I was wrong.

She runs to her classroom before the two idiots can say another word, and I watch as they cross the foyer and into the room behind me.

There was one other thing I learned yesterday: Skinny and Ugly are in my class. And Skinny and Ugly like to pick on the younger grades.

I know their type; the bad kids who think they’re invincible just because someone smaller than them can’t fight back. Like Pigtails.

When lunch rolls around, I follow them out and wait for them as they grab their bags and disappear to one of the benches near the back of the school. Before Skinny can put his ass on the seat, I sink my grip into the back of his shirt and yank backward. I kick my leg out, so he stumbles over my foot and loses his balance, landing on the ground with a solid thud.

Ugly is as stupid as he looks because he lunges for me, with no form or practice, all rage. He stops screaming when my fist collides with his face, and he rears back, squealing like a little baby.

Skinny tries to scramble to his feet, but my foot lands on the side of his ribs. “What’s your problem, dude?” he hisses, clutching his side.

“Talk to the mouse again, and I’ll do a lot worse to your stupid face,” I sneer and snatch one of the backpacks. I almost hit them again, just because it isn’t empty like mine.

“Who?” I’m not sure which one speaks.

“Pigtails.”

Without a second glance at them, I shove one of their lunch boxes into my bag and storm away. I can feel them gawking at me, probably nursing their wounds at the same time.

They won’t tell the teacher. What are they going to say?