Free The Right and the Real by Joelle Anthony

I’d rather starve first. I crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the recycle bin.
    I ended up closing down the café, but the coffee guy didn’t talk to me again. Although he did give me a little wave around eleven o’clock when he left. At midnight I found myself in the Beast, wondering where to go next. My eyelids drooped. A week of barely sleeping hadfinally caught up with me right when I had no bed to crash in. I tried to think of someplace safe to park and ended up at the Doughnut Shoppe because it was open all night.
    Two police cars were parked across the street at the convenience store, which made me both nervous and reassured. Would they notice me? Maybe it didn’t matter. I parked on the outer edge of the lot and then I shifted a few boxes to the front and stretched out on the backseat, using my pink comforter and pillow for bedding.
    Even with my clothes on and tucked under the comforter, I shivered from cold. Sounds of cars pulling in and out, their doors banging, made me uneasy. I buried my head under the pillow, but that gave me a crick in my neck. Finally, I must’ve drifted off because a couple of guys yelling at each other about cream-filled doughnuts jarred me awake.
    “Dude. I dibbed that one first,” a voice shouted.
    I peered through the window, staying down so they wouldn’t see me. Two guys in Oregon State sweats wrestled and laughed over a box of doughnuts. I watched as they got into a little gray Honda and drove away.
    I plugged in my iPod, found my well-worn copy of Laurence Olivier’s biography in my dance bag where I kept it for those times I was early to class, and read by the light of the streetlamp. The next thing I knew, it was dawn and the book was pressed into my cheek, probably leaving a mark.
    “Ow, ow, ow!” I said, rolling my head around, trying to loosen the stiff muscles in my neck. If my breath was half as bad as my mouth tasted, I felt sorry for anyone who got within ten feet of me.
    I stepped into a puddle when I climbed out, soaking my right sneaker, and splashed across the lot toward the Doughnut Shoppe.Inside, I washed my face in the bathroom and tousled my hair with a little water. I’d forgotten my toothbrush, so I used my finger, but it did absolutely nothing, and I still felt totally gross.
    “What can I get you?” asked the girl behind the counter.
    I ordered the dollar-ninety-nine special. Sitting on a stool at the counter, I tore off tiny pieces of a blueberry muffin and forced myself to eat them. It was fresh, the coffee inky, and the crossword puzzle someone had left behind impossible. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, and my tap dance class didn’t start until nine, but I finished my food and left anyway, tucking one of my precious dollars under the saucer for a tip.
    When I stepped inside from the windy, rainy cold into the warm, almost humid foyer of Bright Lights Studio, the familiar odor of floor polish, wood, and sweat enveloped me like a hug. No matter how chaotic things were in my life, the hushed voices of parents, the monotonous tones of ballet teachers calling out positions, and the soft tinkling of the piano always relaxed me.
    I walked past the toe class where Liz and Megan spent their Saturday mornings, and I peeked in. I picked them out of the row of ballerinas standing at the barre, listening to Madame Zubrinski. If they saw me, you’d never know it. They both had the still, concentrated look of all the rest of the dancers in the class, and their gaze never shifted from Madame’s face.
    Ballet at school was really simple stuff, and I enjoyed it, but when it had been time for me to go up on toe shoes here at Bright Lights, I’d decided to give it a miss. I wanted to be an actress, not a dancer with messed-up feet. Sometimes I envied my friends’ grace and dedication, though. Hard work had gotten Liz early acceptance at Oberlintoo, and I was still waiting to hear about drama school. Assuming I could even figure out a way to go if I