little kid who wasn’t paying attention. Once when she and her mother had been up in Portland, some skuzzy-looking guy on a bike had crashed into a tiny old lady on the sidewalk outside Renys on Congress Street. Mrs. Giroux had hurried right over to help the woman, but the skuzzy-looking guy had just taken off. That had happened years ago, but Meg still remembered how scared and kind of sick she had felt seeing the blood on the old lady’s forehead. A police car was on the scene within minutes and it turned out that the cut on the old lady’s forehead was minor, but Meg had a feeling that both she and the old lady would remember that incident for a very long time to come.
Meg glanced down at the Swatch watch on her left wrist. She was a bit early. There was time to window-shop. Nothing helped chase away negative thoughts or upsetting memories like window-shopping, unless it was actual shopping, but she couldn’t afford to do that too often. She came to a stop in front of a small store called Annie’s Boutique. It sold women’s clothes and accessories. Now, for summer, there was a display of bathing suits, cover-ups, straw hats, sunglasses, and sandals. A pair of sandals right in the center of the display caught Meg’s eye. They were flat and silver, with a thin strap around the ankle and a shiny blue stone on the strap that went across the toe. She would love, love, love to have a pair of those sandals, but she bet there was no way she could afford them. It seemed so unfair. Rosie could probably afford to buy them but she probably wouldn’t bother; she didn’t care about fashion all that much. Meg sighed and touched the glass of the window with a fingertip. She supposed she could try to save up for a pair, but by the time she had enough money to buy them, the store would probably be sold out.
“Grr,” Meg said under her breath. “Grr, grr, grr.” She was self-aware enough to recognize the mood into which she was rapidly descending. Her mother called it her Miss Grumpy Pants mood. She said it wasn’t attractive. Most times, Meg didn’t care. Like at that moment, slowly cycling on past the boutique and toward St. Teresa of Avila church and rectory. Who was around to even notice if she was being “attractive”? And why should Meg care what other people thought of her?
Well, no man—or woman—was an island. That was another one of her mother’s favorite expressions. And in my case, Meg thought contritely, yeah, I should care what other people think about me. Because no one could get by alone. No person could survive without a community.
Her mother was right. She had told Meg she was lucky that her part in Rosie’s breakdown wasn’t known. If Meg had been publicly accused of bullying, even if she wasn’t really guilty, no sane parent would have hired Meg to baby-sit her kids. And the Giroux family needed whatever money they could earn. It seemed like Meg’s mother reminded her of that every single day. Meg glanced down at the ratty old sneakers she was wearing. As if she could ever forget. Her mother didn’t even let them get a real tree at Christmastime because she said it was money down the drain. The artificial tree that they had been using for, like, forever, was sad and saggy, but nothing short of it falling on top of Petey could persuade Mrs. Giroux to toss it and buy a new one. Buy fresh flowers at Hannaford? No way. The dusty old plastic yellow tulips she had found at a garage sale would have to do. Throw away a pair of jeans because the hems were frayed? Why not just sew on a new hem, cut from a stray scrap of fabric? Her mom didn’t need Jane Patterson’s help to do that.
Meg pedaled on. Well, she thought, she might be poor now, but she fully intended to make a ton of money when she grew up and got out of school. She definitely wanted to go to college but was pretty sure she would have to go part-time while she worked a full-time job. Whatever. She would do it, and since she was really good
Meg glanced down at the Swatch watch on her left wrist. She was a bit early. There was time to window-shop. Nothing helped chase away negative thoughts or upsetting memories like window-shopping, unless it was actual shopping, but she couldn’t afford to do that too often. She came to a stop in front of a small store called Annie’s Boutique. It sold women’s clothes and accessories. Now, for summer, there was a display of bathing suits, cover-ups, straw hats, sunglasses, and sandals. A pair of sandals right in the center of the display caught Meg’s eye. They were flat and silver, with a thin strap around the ankle and a shiny blue stone on the strap that went across the toe. She would love, love, love to have a pair of those sandals, but she bet there was no way she could afford them. It seemed so unfair. Rosie could probably afford to buy them but she probably wouldn’t bother; she didn’t care about fashion all that much. Meg sighed and touched the glass of the window with a fingertip. She supposed she could try to save up for a pair, but by the time she had enough money to buy them, the store would probably be sold out.
“Grr,” Meg said under her breath. “Grr, grr, grr.” She was self-aware enough to recognize the mood into which she was rapidly descending. Her mother called it her Miss Grumpy Pants mood. She said it wasn’t attractive. Most times, Meg didn’t care. Like at that moment, slowly cycling on past the boutique and toward St. Teresa of Avila church and rectory. Who was around to even notice if she was being “attractive”? And why should Meg care what other people thought of her?
Well, no man—or woman—was an island. That was another one of her mother’s favorite expressions. And in my case, Meg thought contritely, yeah, I should care what other people think about me. Because no one could get by alone. No person could survive without a community.
Her mother was right. She had told Meg she was lucky that her part in Rosie’s breakdown wasn’t known. If Meg had been publicly accused of bullying, even if she wasn’t really guilty, no sane parent would have hired Meg to baby-sit her kids. And the Giroux family needed whatever money they could earn. It seemed like Meg’s mother reminded her of that every single day. Meg glanced down at the ratty old sneakers she was wearing. As if she could ever forget. Her mother didn’t even let them get a real tree at Christmastime because she said it was money down the drain. The artificial tree that they had been using for, like, forever, was sad and saggy, but nothing short of it falling on top of Petey could persuade Mrs. Giroux to toss it and buy a new one. Buy fresh flowers at Hannaford? No way. The dusty old plastic yellow tulips she had found at a garage sale would have to do. Throw away a pair of jeans because the hems were frayed? Why not just sew on a new hem, cut from a stray scrap of fabric? Her mom didn’t need Jane Patterson’s help to do that.
Meg pedaled on. Well, she thought, she might be poor now, but she fully intended to make a ton of money when she grew up and got out of school. She definitely wanted to go to college but was pretty sure she would have to go part-time while she worked a full-time job. Whatever. She would do it, and since she was really good
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