Free Living Rough by Cristy Watson

Chapter One
    I didn’t need a weatherman to tell me what to expect when I woke up. It was painfully clear. Well, the skies weren’t clear. What was clear was that it was going to be another crappy day. How can it rain for twenty days straight?
    I’d scrubbed last night, so I pulled my pants and shirt on. My clothes smelled musty and felt damp. I figured some fresh air would help, and I wanted to break my record for speed-walking to school. My best time was eighteen minutes. Rain is a good motivator for speed. So I grabbed my felt hat and headed out into the cool wet morning.
    I wolfed down a granola bar as I started up the hill. I’d grabbed it from the breakfast program at school. No one wanted to call it what it was, a meal program for loser poor kids. I always arrived early so I could raid the food and clear out before the halls got busy.
    But the risk of going that early was that I was usually the only kid in the joint, and the staff would try to have a heart-to-heart with me. Every day. Like my life changed between Monday and Tuesday. I’m only fifteen, after all.
    I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, so I was happy to find the room was empty. I figured it was safe to slip in and grab an apple from the food table. Sour juice ran down my chin as I bit into the green fruit. I’d just pocketed a peanut-butter granola bar when I heard voices. That was my cue to clear out of there.
    I met one of the ladies that supervise the room on her way in. “Hi, Edgar,” she said. “I thought you might like this raincoat.” She held out a fluorescent blue jacket.
    I shook my head and bolted down the hall. Couldn’t she see I was a trench-coat kind of guy? As I rounded the corner by the library, I bumped into our principal.
    â€œMr. Reed,” he said. He had a habit of calling students by their last name. I had often thought of calling him Pete to be funny, but I never quite got the courage.
    â€œHi, Mr. Johnson.”
    â€œListen, I’m glad I ran into you,” he continued. “I was wondering if you could do the school a favor.”
    I don’t know why he talked about the school like it was a person.
    â€œCould you show a new student around before the first bell? She arrived yesterday from the Ukraine and doesn’t speak much English.”
    â€œI guess.” I tried to sound noncommittal. Maybe he’d come to his senses and find a keener, like someone from student council. But he didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. He gestured for me to follow him toward the office.
    As I walked behind Mr. Johnson, I counted the tiles on the floor. There were forty-one linoleum squares from the breakfast room to the office. Counting helped my nerves to chill.
    â€œInna, please meet Mr. Reed,” said Mr. Johnson as he reached the foyer.
    I couldn’t believe he’d used her first name. Her last name must be a beast to pronounce. I kept my gaze toward the floor while I thought about how I could get out of this.
    A hand came into my view. The nails were spattered with green polish and were bitten to the quick. This girl was a chewer. Maybe she’d be all right. I risked looking up at her.
    â€œHallo. I’m Inna,” she said. Her accent was as thick as the mascara she’d darkened her lashes with. Eyeliner brightened her hazel eyes. Her lower lip quivered. She was obviously scared to death.
    I’d be traumatized, too, if I didn’t know the language. “I’m Edgar,” I said as I shook her hand. I knew how to be polite. She smiled with what looked like relief. She didn’t want to take the tour any more than I wanted to give it. Mr. Johnson was already retreating down the hall.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Reed. Welcome, Inna. Enjoy your day at Crescent High,” he called over his shoulder.
    â€œYou’re…welcome,” she answered.
    I smiled.
    â€œWell, this is the office. Come here when you need to use the