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“The Bathroom Stall” by Rockin’ Writers

The Bathroom Stall

Rockin’ Writers

I sit in on the toilet seat of my high school’s bathroom, the door locked after receiving the news during class that I have detention. Rain patters on the tin roof erupts my thoughts, as they get louder along with the thunder. The weather matches this oh-so-perfect-day. The graffiti on the back of the stall door dare me to stare at them. It says “Eleanor is a hore” along with many other writings of “fuck you.” I agree, bathroom stall, my only fucking friend, which is so freaking stupid, I’m so luxurious that my best friend is a fucking bathroom stall. Wow. New progress for me.

I lean against the cool stone wall and tuck my chin to my knees, my bones shaking like an earthquake because I’m still a little bit dizzy from that vodka I sneaked in and drank during History II, which luckily I didn’t get caught because Mr. Mongoma is the most oblivious teacher ever and too dedicated to the idea of Natizis which results in the Boringest History Class In History, so it doesn’t really matter any way if I take just a little sip to calm my nerves. Now I have a slight head ache and a something exciting buzzing in my chest, like I have something trapped inside me.

I’m hoping that is the reason why I’m in for detention, but I know it’s not, and it’s not even my freaking fault. I’d rather it’d be my fault for breaking the rules of alcohol on campus rather than I being the accused for what happened, and it not even being true. The lies are deep in the soles of my finger tips, trying to scratch their way out with the dirt from my backyard’s garden (which only has weeds but Dad says I have to pick anyway, but he’s always a little high, so it doesn’t matter if he seems crazy to other people, because it will always be normal to me), trying to get chipped away, but I have to keep the lie, or else my life will be even more worse, because how worse can it get? Always more, freaking always. In my life, nothing can’t turn out worse.

My scruffy bangs are in my eyes again, burning their blue Oceanside. I shake them out of my eyes so I can close them and try to focus on the silence in the bathroom rather than the loud gossipy voices, high pitched and laughing, chattering so much it reminds me of when you speed up the music and sounds like screeching eagles on a record player and put it on the wrong record size. It sounds like time will never slow down. Every time I hear a high-pitched voice, or footsteps coming closer, my stomach squeezes until I think I’m going to throw up and I push my head harder against the wall even though it makes my head hurt worse.

If feels weird to have my eyes itch so regularly now from my night shifts at the cheap no-one-ever-goes-to-except-loosers (drop out seniors) and old grandmas discount department store. I get minimum wage, which fits me and I’m okay with because I’m sure it’s going to go out of business soon, and Marlin, the retired but-works-part-time at the department store because she’s always bored at home, has no grand kids, lives in a quiet house, and has to go over to her daughter’s house every weekend to help her because she has a disability and can’t pay all her bills. So, some people have it worse than me, and because of that possibility, which is always stained in my mind like the permanent black rings in my coffee mug I always take with me on Tuesdays, the one day every week I go to work from 4-close, which is 11:59 every Tuesday only because Marlin and I can’t work the day shifts.

I mean, I can connect to Marlin, because she’s a nice lady and would be a great grandmother, even if she might be a little shadowy to some people on the streets, but she means well, and works hard for her small pay check at the end of every week. She actually works all week, but only one night shift, which is on Tuesday because of me. Tonight Marlin’s not going to be there (so I’ll be a loner, and bored, because no one freaking comes to a discount department store at 11:59 P.M. On a school/work night, especially on Tuesdays) because she recently got news that something happened to her disabled 40-year old daughter and she has no idea what, so it’s an emergency. So I’m just going to be sitting on the counter in the darkness of the small, weird, smells-like-leaking-rain-and-mold-and-random-grandmother’s acne soap, which doesn’t even work because have you noticed? Grandmas don’t really need acne soap. I’ll just put m ear buds in and listen to The Beatles sing about the sun and continue reading Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass.

The first time I discovered the “inner true poet in me” and decided to become one, was when I read Walt Whitman. He’s my dream hero to words. Some people have special tree houses, or man caves, or closets, or secret rooms or some “special quiet place” to go to when they are emotionally corrupted, but my special place, isn’t so much a place, but creating them with my own imaginary mind. I’m not saying I’m a freak that’s seventeen year old, a teenage girl in high school that still has an imaginary friend and creates imaginary places, because I’m fucking insane, I’m saying my special go-to-place are words. I’m a poet by heart, but mostly hand, so it’s my mind and hand that connects the telephone line to the pen tat makes it real. When I was six, I wrote my first poem because my class was learning how to write poetry, and I fell in love with it, so I told my shitty parents that I was going to become a poet and they shitted all my dreams and imaginary unicorn bullshit back at me and ruined everything.

“Who do you think you are, Bree? You’re never going to become successful at anything, so why the hell do you want to write for a living? You need a job that will get you rich, like us, honey.” Yeah, Mom, you’re both fucking drunks for a living and don’t even pay your bills, so how can you say I’m freaking not going to be successful when you don’t even know what the word means? Any way, when their words finally stomped me out, I quit trying until in high school, we had the assignment to write a poem and so of course I did and mine turned out so good, my English teacher pulled me aside and asked if I’d written more. I told her I kept some in this one journal I always keep with me in my back pocket with a sharp old-point black pen and so I agreed to show them tot her. Later, she asked me if I wanted to get published in the school newspaper, and I told her no, because I didn’t want anyone else to read my words again, and tell me how I couldn’t succeed and I was silly, just like my parents did. She told me I could go anonymous, and finally, after a month with nagging, I agreed.

They were instantly everywhere at school, and the poems became written by the mysterious anonymous famous writer, who is like a celebrity in secret at our school. The greatest thing is that I’ve been able to keep it up, and it gets better and better and no one would ever guess it be me, especially because I’m short, easily over-seen, invisibly normal with a gray sweatshirt, skinny, avoiding eyes, and long fingers with dull finger nail tips. My bangs hide my face well. Everything about me is a closed door, except when I write, which breaks everything inside me into something I could never even be able to describe in my poems except it makes me feel infinitely larger, stronger and definitely full of light, like even if no one is watching, I’ll always be a glowing light for everyone to find if they get lost.

But here I am, sitting here wailing away at how shitty my boring life is. I guess that’s how things role. I get detention because I was seen drunk in some club, singing bad karaoke and almost puking my guts out. I figure it was Michelle Taylor who ratted me out. The one with the long blonde hair, dark get-lost-in beautiful eyes, that smile that rips guys hearts out right with one handful of a twisted mouth and teeth. The girl who just happens to be my ex’s girlfriend. I remember that night all too clearly even though I was a drunken coward, and even though now I’m scared that I’m turning into my parents.

I was sitting at the bar, drinking some scotch, (I knew the guy who owned the place. It was right next door to the discount department store.) after my shift was done, and of course he walked in, Michelle tucked under his arm and in his hands, their mouths intertwined as if time didn’t even exist and… gosh what a bitch time is.

I swung away from them, trying to disguise myself among the others sitting at the bar, but of course she say me. Her eyes transformed into a nice little glare, one that I didn’t give back (sometimes, I’m a freaking dumb ass) and she stirred him over to the bar, and with a little persuasiveness of her large cleavage, they got drinks. I prepared and waited for what was to come next, but all she said to me was “Hello, Bree.” I smiled shyly back and then turned to stare at the almost-empty-bottle of scotch.

I had a thing for alcohol, not because I’m a drunk, but it mends the pain. Sometimes it even helps the physical pain, when the bruises turn eggplant purple and even when it’s summer I wear sleeves. There’s always cuts, too. I don’t like the bruises, but I know I have to get used to the pain, so I cut along my wrists so I can still wear short sleeved shirts because I have thick bracelets on.

I didn’t say anything to her for a while until the doors swung open and the cool air blew in, the rain filling the bar with the aroma of it.

The truth was, I was at the bar so I didn’t have to go home and hear my parents argue. That day was the anniversary of Mom’s first baby’s death, when she had fallen from a balcony railing three hundred feet high. Whenever I imagine it, I don’t think of it as a tall building, or a railing that was a little too loose and a baby girl falling, and not being able to learn how to fly, instead I think of her falling with her eyes closed, and floating, but I know it never worked that way, because death isn’t that easily not scary. I know she didn’t scream because she didn’t know how to, and probably didn’t even know what was happening at six months.

I knew they’d be past out, or drunk, and I didn’t want to have to be the one to hear their mourns and help them to bed, because it hurts to see your parents falling apart, instead of being strong and helping you. And I don’t stay away because they’re depressed, because I know that’s stupid, because that’s what Emma did, my 32-year-old-rich sister, who lives in New York and drinks champagne every Friday because she has work parties at her mansion or whatever and sleeps probably with a different guy every week even though she kisses her beloved “soul mate” husband, Kevin in her above-knee dresses left them, left me, so I am the only one that can support them. It’s the only reason why I work at the discount department store: so I my parents can be happy and see me successful; so I can pay the bills; feed us; and so I can save up to go to college and major in English to become a famous poet and write poems for the New York Times and write to inspire people, and succeed. Even tough I know I will never able to save up enough money with paying the bills, but I still work any way, for a dream that’s not even going to come true. It feels better trying to work for something knowing you won’t be able to work for it, than not trying to reach for your dream at all.

Yeah, so that was when my parents came into the bar, half drunk and the other half high, swallowing in slurs of laughter and words. My tumbling fingers fled straight through me, continuing to dig their fingernails into my guts. In that moment I wanted to scream, as they turned and waved, slurring my name. Their laughter shrilled me up into pieces, my breathing became short and erupted. I watched Michelle in the corner of my eyes, her face coming up into a smirk. I finally formed the words,

“You can tell any other rumor about me, except for about my parents being drunk. Please?” Her eyes stared mischievously at me, and finally she gave me a nod.

I ran out of the bar, still lightly buzzed, my parents and ex and my ex’s girlfriend and everyone laughing at me, as I got to my car and drove home, even though I knew it was illegal, I didn’t care.

Michelle kept her promise, but it didn’t make It much better that she had told the principle that I’d driven to school drunk. Now, as I sit here, reading the back of the stall door as if it were a newspaper, fucking this and fucking that, just like the black-sharpie graffiti said to.

I know going to college (especially now with my thirteenth detention this year) is just a dream I’m chasing. But I can’t help but keep going and working that crappy night-shift and the even sitter discount department store, waiting to become someone famous, someone that I’m not nor that ‘ll ever be.

I pull my hair up into a bun and pull out a black sharpie pen. I write, “Fuck the broken happiness.” I cap the pen, feeling pretty satisfied. There, I wrote something and no one can write in the same damn spot that I wrote there.

Someone knocks on the stall door, and I suddenly jump.

“Hello? Is someone in there?” I barely smile before I unlock the door and walk past the girl staring at me as I whisper, “I want to get better.”

© 2015 Haven & Coral Worley


“Rich and Poor” by The Rock’n Writers

An animal trainer
“Don’t eat that!”
Spending $4


Rich and Poor

By: The Rock’n Writers

The clouds moved across the dark sky, and crows croaked on the powerlines. And Olivia walked down the black newly paved sidwalks of the city of New York.

She took a peak behind her to make sure no one had followed her from the orphanage when she exscaped. Then she went back to foucusing on the model dress in the front window of Turnialla’s Botique. She sunk her shoulders as she touched the frosty window with her hand. It was 180 dollars. She knew she was poor. She would never have enough money to buy the beautiful dress. But oh, how much she wanted that dress.

Olivia reaches into her torn and ripped pocket. She pulls out four dollars. Next door is Newyork’s Doughnuts. Her stumach grumbbles. She decides to go in and eat. Olivia goes in the doughnut shop and stands in line to wait for her turn.

“What do ya want?” The man behind the counter asks, as if he could care less. Olivia glances at a sign taped in the window that reads: Try our newest doughnut, The Sprinkle Smasher! She looks back at the employee,

“I’ll have The Sprinkle Smasher.”

“Don’t eat that!” Someone yelled behind her. Then added, “Someone got sick eating that yesterday!”

“Here, why don’t you get the… Magic Doughnut. It will give you everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re dreams will come true!” The employee cried.

“People! They sell you things just for money! Someone said, shaking their head. Olivia didn’t care as long as she ate something.

“Yes, fine! Here.” She gave him her whole four dollars and he gave her the doughnut. She sat down and couldn’t wait any longer. She closed her eyes and took a bite… and then doughnut changed her life forever…

She opened her eyes to the voices of people yelling: “Oh my gosh! -Olivia The Famous!” Follwed by, excited screams. A crowd was forming around her; buch of blinking eyes zooming in on her and click! Click! Click! Camras were clicking faster than a race hore’s heart.

“Come on now, stop diddle- dadling with your fans!” Whispers an old women in her now, booming ears.

“Fans?” She manages to squeak.

“Yes! We have to go now, your parents are waiting for you at the mansion. And I have to get home to cook for you, since the cooks are out on vacation, for a week. She smiles as they walk out and go into a black limousine with striking black leather seats. Olivia snuggles up in the heated-massaging-chairs and thinks, “Ah, this is life!” But then she notices a flat T.V. screen that comes down from the ceiling and the arms of the chairs have pockets filled with M&Ms and lots of other snacks, the seat belts are lined all the way up and all the way down with rubbies and dimonds and the black tinted windows shine with pleasure.

After two hours of driving, she finally got the guts to ask the old women the questions that had been haunting her. “Exuse me?” Olivia asks, politley. [Allways best to be polite if you want to talk something out of someone.] “Yes?” The old women repliys back, directley. “Um… what’s you’re name? And, how far out is this place?” She says, looking out the winow at cornfields; -they had been passing miles of them. “Well, Olivia! You better stop playing your memory games. You know who I am! I’m your Nanna! – your nannie. And we’ll be there soon.” Her um… Nannie turns away for the first time with a scowl on here face. “Mhmhmh… a nannie.” Olivia says to herself.

Finally, the limousine rolls to a stop and the driver shifts the gear to park. She trys the doors but they’re locked. The driver gets out f the car and opens the door in a very formal way. Olivia stumbles out of the car and lands on red carpet. Then the driver takes her hand and leads her to two big double doors the kind that are on he white house. She’s greated by a big “Hellllloooo!” by a women with dark red hair and blue eyes with perfect, fair skin. She smiles and her whole face lits uplike a chirtmas tree. “Come, come lets dine.” Her eyes twinkle as she says this, and Olivia woners, [ the angle part of me] “Who is this person? Who do they think I am?” Then, she supposes her devil part of here says: “Who cares? This is fun! -Enjoy it while it lasts! They glind into a dinning room with a 90 ft table awaits with plenty of food and candles as lights. A man, seated at the table, around the women’s age was readng a news paper with the headline, OUR CITY, QUEENS, IN THE FAMOUS CITY, NEWYORK NEEDS MORE MONEY! “I thought the cooks were out on vacation.” Says Nannie. “Uh, well, before they left, they decided to do some cooking.” The man answered Nannie. Then his eyes lit up and he ran over to hug Olivia, “Oh, sweetheart! Are you ready for diner? Sharie, why don’t you take Olivia upstairs to her room. Honey, clean yourself up for dinner and then we’ll see you here when you’re finished with that. Nannie took Olivia up to her room, as requested.

When she passed a mirror she sw a beautiful girl. “Is someone following me?” She wondered. She went ovr to the mirror. “Who’s there?!” she cried at the girl in the miror. Olivia crossed her arms and the girl in the mirror did too. “Stop copying me!” She yelled. She sun around. But no one was behind her. She turned in all directions. No one was in etheir. With lots of frustraition she sat down with a thump! Then she noticied her shoes. They were cowgirl boots with high hills. She stood up. They made her way taller. Back at the orphanage, before she had exscaped, the other orphanes would tease her about her regular short size. She allso relized she wasn’t wearing the black and white striped dress, or her stockings that had more than one thousand ripped spots. Nor her worn-out-too small sneakers. She looked in the mirror again. She WAS that girl in the mirror. She no longer had scratches, zits or the scares on her face that she had before. Her skin couldn’t be more like Snow White’s. Her lips a pearl rose. Her eyes were bluer than the sky when she had seen her eyes one thousand times green in chipped glasses at the orphanage. Her brown hair was in curls whitch bounced with every inch, no longer looking like a hair dresser had cut it at different angles. She know was a beautiful, rich girl. No longer plain and simple. For now she diddn’t notice the gold hearts chipped in the frame of the mirror, she noticed the little freckels on her nose she had never noticed before. She smiled at herself and the girl in the mirror smiled back. Then she skipped along into her dressing room with the dress on that she had wanted that was in Turnilla’s Botique’s front window.

Olivia came down to the dinning room where her “parents” waited with a fresh purple ballgown on.

“Oh, darling, you look exsquesant!” her “mother” gasped. Oliva giggled and grinned from ear to ear.

“Manners, sweety.” Her “mother” scowled.

“Oh, uh… Sorry… Thank you, mother.” Olivia curtsied but streetched the word ‘mother’ out far enough that it would explode.

Then she saw all the wonderful food! It would have been a feast for the whole country and there would still be more! From pasteries to barbiqued ribs, from muffins to casirolls, from garlic bread to buttered peanutbutter-chocolatechip-strawberry-blueberry-banana-cherry cream soda-bacon and egg pancakes. It didn’t matter if it was dinner, have some breakfeast and some lunch! There was tacos, pizza, macaroni, tuna sandwhitches, macaroons and lemon marine pie for dessert. There was more food tha anyone could write on a peaice of paper.

Every bite Olivia took became better and better and better. When she had finished and her stomach could not take it any longer, it looked like she hadn’t tuched a ting on her plate! The tablemen took away all the food and silverwaer.

“Olivia, sweetheart, why don’t you get ready for bed now?” her “father” sugegests and skatters nannie and Olivia off to her room once again.

When olivia was ready for bed, she snuggled up, all warm and cozy in her queen sized bed with a comfurture worth over 2000,025 dollars. Then her “parents’ come in and tuck her in, kissing her forehead. But then, her “father” pulls out a wrapped-up present with a fluffy green bow on top. The box was big enough to fit a horse in it.

“For me?!” Olivia gasped.

“For you.” Her “father” replied. She tore it open and out came a puppy! I’ll name you Spot!” Olivia cried with pear joy. Spot licked her face and the whole family giggled. The two “parents” kissed her and Spot gooodnight again then turned off the lights and shut the door tight.

Suddenly, Oliva felt someone watching her. She looked around the room, but it was too dark to see.

“Who-who-who’s there?!” She asked, shaking, but no voice came to answer. Olivia ran to turn on the lights. The lights stung her eyes for being in the dark too long.What she found was one-hundred stuffed owls starring at her.

“What?” she asked aloud. She ran to her “parents’” bedroom. She knocked once, twice.

“Come in!” she heard. She came in and asked,

“Whyis there a bunch of stuffed owls in my bedroom starring at me?’

“uh….. You know why, sweetheart. Have you forgotten? They’ve always been there. But I must must answer if you have to know: because you know how you’re dad loves to collect stuffed

owls because he’s an animal trainer and can train any animal in the world! And it’s just like how I’m a famous acttress! Now, you need to go to bed. It’s getting late. Would you like to sleep in our bed?” Her “mother” asked. Olivia shook her head. She went back to her heated floor and into her heated bed and went to sleep…… Dreaming of owls.

The morning woke up Olivia. She got rady for the big day and went down stairs to seee no one around. She went to the backyard and found her parents in the hottub with a wait-tress ready to take their order. There was a pool with a glistening waterfall and a whole field with a barn and three horses in the distance.

“Come on in! Go get you’re swim-suit on and jump in! oh and tell the waitress what you want!” they encouraged her. Nannie brought her her jewled swim-suit and Olivia quickly left to change.

No longer than a minute , olivia was playing in the pool, eating a chinomon roll.

After breakfeast, her “mother’ decided they should ride their horses.

“Oh! I’ve always wanted to ride a horse before!” Cried olivia. Her “mother” frowned,

“you’ve ridden horses before.”

“Oh, yes. Of course!” Olivia lied.

Olivia jumped up and down as she petted a horse named Lucy.

They rode on horses, talking and laughing together as they rode past mountains, plush hills, a forsest and cornfiels. The laughter and talking died down as they stopped at a cliff to look over the sunset. They watched till the sun went down, the day turned into night; the clouds were replaced with stars and the light grew darker. Then the family rode back to their mansion under the stars.

Then the family was up early to go shopping. After a good day started off with breakfeast, they head out to the most fanciest place in Queens, new York.

“Get a cart and pick out everything you want! Ready? Set…. Go!’ yelled her “mom.” Everyone ran and grabbed whatever they wanted or liked. They came together at the middle of the store. They bought their things and headed for the next store and did the same thing. They did this for the whole day until they were too tired to even walk. They went home and started looking at their things they had bought. Then, Olivia’s ‘mother” came into her room.

“Is this everything you wanted?” she asks, looking at Olivia. Olivia grins. She runs over to her “mom” and hugs her and says,

“Oh, this is everthing I wanted, mother!” And this time she didn’t streetch it……..

Olivia had beeen at this “new life” for about a week. But it was the same thing every day. Get up, breakfeast in the pool and hot tub. Then go ride horses, buy EVERYTHING you want, play, eat and sleeep. Being ritch was kind of getting boring. Every day she would get everything she wanted and play with the toys, pillows, clothes and stuffed animals for a day. Then it would be the next things she bought. Then it would go on and on and on. And she would never play with the “old” toys ever again. Finally, she went to go tell her mother this. When she had finished her mother poundered it for a minute. Then said, “Olivia?”

“Yes, mother?”

“You WILL do this every day! But, I will allow you to play outside for 30 minutes. AND this IS finall!”

“Yes, mother.” Her eyes were getting teary and she felt like she just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry like a baby. “Does mother not love me anymore?” she thought. “Maybe she just wants me to have fun and hinks that I don’t like going shopping and buying everything I want. Hmph.”

On the way to her room, she bumped into her father. “Oh! Sorry!” She says, looking concerned.

“watch where you’re going! And here is a new list of rules for you to follow!” He pushes a peaice of paper into her hands.

“I said I was sorry!” Olivia called after him. But he didn’t reply back. “Maybe father doesn’t love me anymore etheir.” She runs to her room, slams the door, locks it and falls to the floor and starts cry. Then, she looks up at the mirror on the sparkling, pink door with the beautiful girl in it and SMASHES it into one million peaices. “There! Now she’s ugly! Go get a different daughter! One that’s twice as beautiful as me!” She then sobbed and sobbed until she fell asleep on the brown, fuzzy carpet.

The next day wasn’t going so well. She didn’t get to eat breakfeast in the pool OR hot tube or even swim in them. She ate in her room. – She HAD to. Mother made her. Instead of riding horses, she had to feed and clean up their filthey, stinkey, ugly, smelly, disgusteing, poop. –Yuck. Then, instead of going shoping, she had to stay in her room and study all day! I guess her mother had lied. Plus, there were new rules. But, for now she was safe playing outside with her new friend, Lily. They had only just met each other on the sidewalk. Soon, it was time for lunch. Mother came out and told her: “Its time for.” Then stopped when she spotted Lily. “OLIVIA! Get away from that girl, NOW!”

“But Mother, she’s my friend!” Olivia snapped back at her.

“I don’t care if she’s your stupid friend, or your freaking sisiter! She’s black! And she’s poor! She doesn’t even have a mother, much less food. GET AWAY! Then she took Olivia’s arm and lead her away from Lily and just abandened her right there. And they were at the park.

“Lily doesn’t know the way home!” She protested.

“If she even has one.” Her mother growled back as they ate luch at their house. Sense the park had ‘cooties’ from blacks. Her mother had said.

“Why would you do something like that?” She asks.

“Because she’s black, your white. Your rich, she’s poor. Were rich so we get to do whatever we want.”

“What?!” Olivia says, with every screaming nerve she had.

“Yes, darling, its just the way things are.” Olivia shakes her head in disgust and her eyebrows narrowed with her eyes burning a glare. One word forms from her mouth, “MONSTER!”

Later, that night, they went to play bingo because Olivia wanted the golden tedy bear and that’s what you got if you won.

They all had sheets. Almost have a bingo… Someone next to her was saying. They haded even called one of Olivia’s numbers! She glances over her father’s shoulder, two more and he could get a bingo! And her mother’s… Olivia gaspes. “Bingo!” Her mother calls out. “Ya! We win!” says Olivia jumping nup and down on the balls of her feet. “We win! Whoo hoo!0. you guys loose! Loosers! We win! We’re winners! Ha, ha, ha!” Her father yells, punching the air with his fists. “Please sit down, Mr. And Mrs. Black. You will get your prize after everyone has left.” Says the man who had called out the numbers from the bingo bowl.

Then her father whispers in Olivia’s ear, “We cheated! When the guy sittting next to me wasn’t looking I swapped mother’s sheet with his sheet. But who cares? We won!”

“Father, that’s not fair! You must say you’re sorry at once!” Olivia starts to stand up on the bench and say, “Sorry!” But her father grabs her and says,

“No! You have to say you’re sorry to ME!”

“Sorry!” She shoots him in a snotty way.

“Hmph!” Her father says and turns away from her and pouts. Then the same guy who grabbed the bingo numbers out of the bingo bowl handed Olivia the goldden teddy bear.

Her heart felt cold. On the way out of the building, She was dragging behind when she through the golden teddy bear away into a silver trash can. And then she walked away from the miserable night.

Olivia was jumping down the flights of stairs then stopped when she saw her mother have a huge stack of money in her hand. “Where did you get that from?” She asked.

“Hmm? Oh! This! I took some money from the orphange for our family. Ha! Told them they weren’t doing a good job, so I had to take some of their money. Ha, ha! Thay fell into it! Here is some money. Don’t you think that’s fair?” Her mom says. Olivia’s jaw drops opens in surprise.

“No!!!” She screams. She pushes her mother down the stairs and walks down to her.

“I’ve had enough of this! You’re too evil to be a mother!” She yells. Her father walks up the stairs.

“And YOU!” She cries. He freezes, aware that something big is happening.

“Oh, sweetheart, darling.” He tries.

“NO! You’re all the opisite of what I want! Ritch is poor! Poor is ritch! And that’s the way it is! I’ve had enough!” She leaps out the door.

She runs and runs. “I want to go back to my old life! I have to go back to the doughnut shop!” She relizes. Finally, out of breath she stops. “She yells with all her strength left. Olivia glances at the street sign, “107, Hey! This is where the doughnut shop is!” She cries. She runs to the door of the shop, but then stops. “I forgot, mother all the shops in town! This isn’t a doughnut shop anymore! It’s a dress shop!” She relizes, in horror.

“Excuse me.” Someone tugs on her dress sleeve. Olivia looks down to find an orphan.

“Are looking for doughnuts?” The little girl asks. Then adds, “They still have them!”

“No, they don’t.” Olivia says, pretty sure of herself.

“Yes, there is. Follow me!” She says and takes Olivia’s hand and leads her to the back of the store. There is a moving guy loading boxes of doughnuts into his moving truck.

“Can I have a doughnut? The magic Doughnut?” olivia asks the man. He smiles and says,

‘Really, I’m not suppose to but… sure.” He gives her the doughnut as she reaches into her dress pocket and gives him the cash that her mother had given her. She closes her eyes… But before she takes a bite, she stops and looks into the little girl’s face who smiles a wide, toothy grinn. She looks back at the man and says,

“Actauly can I have the Chocolate Waffleler?”

“Here.” The man says, taking back the daughnut and giving her the other one. She hands the little girl the doughnut. The little girl smiles but gives back the doughnut to the man and takes the Magic Doughnut and gives it to Olivia.

“Here. You deserve it.” She says. Olivia can’t help it but hug her. She closes her eyes and takes a bite.

Olivia opens her eyes. And finds herself looking at the 180 dollar model dress in Turnilla’s Botique. She smiles, and the girl reflecting on the window smiles back.

The clouds move across the dark sky and crows croaked on the powerlines. And Olivia walked back to the orphange on the black, newly paved sidewalks of the city of New York.

The End

© 2013 Coral Worley, Haven Worley