Chapter Two
The nothingness almost suffocated me, but before I could die, I landed back in reality, in the city I so little visited with Dad. It was only on occasion that we went out together.
When I was little, I used to watch him go to work, and sometimes went to work with him when I was sick. He'd sign me in as his niece, and I really didn't notice until I saw the log when I was four and was old enough to comprehend in my over developed brain what was going on. It wasn't until I'd got my asthma attack when I was six that Dad convinced his boss to let him work at home. Everyone thought I died because of that asthma attack, and that's why Dad had gone to work at home. But I was still here, I survived, and the real reason he came home was because he wanted to be with me if anything like that happened again.
Pft. As if. My asthma hasn't bothered me since then. But maybe it was because I hadn't done anything since then to risk the state of my breathing.
The soft glow of the street lights shone lazily above my head, and I quickly stepped out of the street, considering it was eight on Friday night and people would be eager to get home to watch new episodes of their favorite T.V. shows.
Looking around to make sure no one saw me, I flipped the hood of my jacket over my head to hide my face and started walking in no particular direction. I thought about getting something decent to eat, and remembered that my money was at home. I paused for a minute, thinking about the eighty dollars I hid on my bookshelf, in between MAX: A Maximum Ride Novel by James Patterson and FANG: A Maximum Ride Novel by James Patterson, a small portion of my fourteen years of savings.
As a reward to my majique, I felt the wad of cash appear in my pocket. I held onto it tightly as I looked around for a fast food restaurant to pig out in. Dad always gave me low amounts of food. He said if I ate too much, I'd get fat, and it would be harder to hide a fat, fourteen year old daughter then a skinny one. Hey, those were his words, not mine. Personally, I believe my dad to be a racist, offensive man.
I'm ashamed of him.
I walked on next to the road, darting in the shadows whenever someone would drive by. Eventually, I found an almost empty burger joint — perfect for me. When I walked through the glass doors, I inhaled the wafting smell of salted fries and greasy hamburgers. My stomach growled, and I approached the counter, staring up at the lit up menu board.
"Can I help you?" The teenager at the cash register asked. She had bushy red hair pulled back under her yellow visor, and a bored tone to her Boston accent, sounding like Fran Fine from the Nanny.
"Hmm..." I mused, still staring at the board. "Are the number threes any good?"
"Look, hon, I only work here, I don't eat the food." She said, leaning on an elbow.
"Okay then," I sighed. "Then I have four number threes with cheese, lettuce, and mayo, four thingies of fries, a hot fudge sundae, and... a Dr. Pepper."
The cashier glanced down at my stick-like figure. "Uh-huh. You gonna finished all that, sweetie?" she asked annoyingly.
"I have a big appetite. Trust me."
"Okay," she said, doubt shining through her voice. Then calling to the back, "Yo, Artie! We got a pole, wants four cooked cows! Numbah threes, American, salad, and mayo, all combos with a frozen moo juice and a doctor!"
Huh? I mentally asked myself.
Was it just me, or was this girl crazy?
