Social Issues
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One of the private-school boys grabs hold of his buddy's arm. "Let's get outta here," he says. "See the fangs on that monster? And the way his ears are sticking up?" I don't like him calling Smokey a monster. If Smokey's baring his fangs, it's because he's on the alert. I head for the cash. I feel like Smokey needs me. Like I understand him in a way no one else does.
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My past is misery; my present, agony; my future, bleak. And it is not just because I'm a thirteen-year-old girl, or because I'm too thin or too tall or because my hair is red (it's orange actually—but they call it red).
