My alarm isn't supposed to go off for fifteen more minutes, but I'm startled awake by a racket that has become familiar over the past few months: Seth, yelling. This morning the object of his wrath is Blanca, our housekeeper and the closest thing to a mother we've had since our own mom died.

I think about just yanking the pillow over my head, but I know that would be useless. Plus I can't leave sweet, soft-spoken Blanca to defend herself. I throw my legs over the side of the bed with a groan. My muscles and feet are still sore from yesterday's class.

I stomp down the first flight of stairs descending from my loft bedroom at the top of the house. Then I have to stomp all the way down the main staircase too before I finally get to Seth and Blanca in the kitchen. Our house is huge but empty, occupied by just the three of us now that summer is ending. Dad is back to being gone most of the time on some kind of political or campaign business. He's running for mayor this year and devotes all of his time to the endeavor, essentially ignoring the fact that Seth is home.

"What the hell is your problem?" I snap at Seth, who's already got his huge headphones on and is stuffing a messy pile of papers into his backpack.

Against everybody's recommendations, Seth decided to start school in August, only three months since coming back home. Since he's been home, things have been tense to say the least. I lost a sweet (if somewhat troubled) little boy and got back a moody teenager who cusses like a sailor, despises everyone and has tried to run away twice in the last two months. I'll never wish he was gone, but I hate to say it... Seth isn't easy to love anymore.

"Hey! Talking to you!" I shout at him.

I know he hasn't heard me. I can hear the steady bass of his rap music playing through his headphones. Rap or metal. This kid doesn't believe in other types of music.

"I heard you!" he yells back, "I'm fine, Rory, just leave me alone."

"Why are you yelling at Blanca?"

"Because the stupid bitch threw away my math homework!"

I glance at Blanca, who just shrugs. I'm seething with rage on her behalf, but she's ever the patient one and has loved Seth through all of his verbal abuse since he got back. She never reacts in anger like I do.

"Don't you dare talk like that about her! Apologize right now!" I shout.

Seth rolls his eyes. "Fuck you," he mumbles, pushing past me and heading out the front door to catch the school bus.

I just stand there trying to get hold of myself before I lose it and start screaming. I ball my hands into fists and force myself to breathe deeply.

"He can't help it, Rory," Blanca says gently.

She's a small Hispanic woman in her fifties with streaks of gray like shooting stars all through her dark ponytail. She's pretty, sweet and quiet, but I know she's capable of defending herself because I've seen her be a badass with my father before. She's just holding back with Seth, and I can't imagine why.

"How can you let him talk to you like that?" I ask, ashamed of the tears I feel pooling in my eyes. The old Seth didn't even know those words.

"Because somewhere under all that mess is the little boy you used to love more than anyone," Blanca says.

"I still love him," I mumble, "It's just harder now."

"Well, I don't think love is supposed to be easy. Cheer up, it's Friday," Blanca says, turning back to the stove. "You want eggs?"

"Sure. Just the whites though," I say. I have class later and need the protein but not the fat.

I'm a senior this year, which means I can finally join the performing arts program that allows me to dance in the afternoons instead of taking regular high school classes. I worked twice as hard to finish all my major credits to graduate last year, which is partly why Kyle broke up with me. He doesn't say much to me these days, and I have nothing to say to his skeezy, lying ass, so I'm glad I only attend school part time. Now that he's out of my life, my afternoons are devoted to practicing with the Dallas Ballet Theater.

---------

I've been working for my dad's grocery store on the weekends and off nights since I was in diapers. He wanted me to be the cutesy face of The Natural Way, and I did all kinds of dumb, low-budget commercials when I was little. First there was Halloween with three-year-old me in a bat costume next to a crate of bright orange pumpkins saying, "Come on down for spooktacular savings!" Then a Christmas with six-year-old me in a red and green plaid dress next to a Christmas tree lisping, "Celebrate the holiday season the natural way!" And my personal favorite: Easter. That was ten-year-old (highly embarrassed) me in a bunny costume mumbling, "Come on down for eggseptional savings!" I didn't live that one down for the rest of elementary school.

Once I was old enough to make actual money, I started bagging groceries and taking them out to people's cars for tips. Then at fifteen I started my current job as a cashier. The arrangement is this: I continue working for my dad and being the sweet, wholesome face of his business, and he continues paying for my ballet classes and other dance expenses (my pointe shoes alone costs hundreds of dollars a month). My dad figures his homegrown, all-American business is good for his campaign, and his smiling daughter behind the cash register is an added bonus. The things I do for dance.

The clientele that shop here are the same folks I've known my whole life so it's rare to see new faces. Maybe that's why the guy with the little girl catches my eye today. It's pretty busy in here this morning, but they definitely stand out. The guy is dripping wet like he just crawled out of a lake, and the little girl is still dressed in her pajamas and isn't wearing any shoes, something for which I would normally ask them to leave, but I let it slide since she's a kid.

I went hunting with my dad once, and I remember coming face to face with this deer. Dad was telling me to shoot it, and I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. The look in its eyes was the same as the look in the boy's eyes now: hunted, scared, wary, trapped and tired. He's cute, though a little scruffy looking, with dark brown hair, green eyes and stubble on his chin. The little girl is adorable with her curly blond hair and sweet smile, but they're both too skinny and look hungry. I can tell they must be homeless. The boy is clutching this ratty-looking backpack as tightly as he's clutching the little girl's hand.

"Rory," the sweet old lady in front of my register says softly, "I had a coupon for that laundry detergent."

"Oh yeah," I say, looking away from the boy and girl, who are now standing in my line. "Sorry, Mrs. Craft."

"That's alright, sweetheart," she says as I hand over her change.

The boy calls the little girl "Pixie". He seems so nervous, like he's waiting for someone to come in and tackle him. I try to be as nice as I can, but the look on his face is telling me to back off so I eventually quit trying. There's something about him that's familiar, but I can't place it. Come to think of it there's something vaguely familiar about the little girl too... but before I can figure out what it is they're gone.

Closing is the only time of the day I get to leave my register since it's usually slow. I walk up and down the aisles with a broom and a dustpan making sure things look decent and double checking that everything's in the right place. I take my time because it's nice to walk around after standing in the same place for hours on end.

I'm over in canned goods when I first see the boy. He's wearing different clothes from this morning, but I recognize the ratty backpack. I walk around the corner of the bread aisle just in time to see him stuff something into that backpack. He doesn't see me so I hang back and follow him stealthily for awhile. By the time we reach the pharmacy section he's stolen something from almost every aisle. I decide to confront him then.

"Hey!" I shout.

The boy whirls around. I can see it in his eyes: fight or flight. He's going to run for it.

"Don't run!" I say, holding out a hand.

The boy just stands there like a deer in the headlights.

"I didn't do anything," he says.

"Bullshit. I saw you. Open your bag," I say, leaning my broom against a shelf full of toothpaste and crossing my arms over my chest.

"No."

I raise my eyebrows. "My father owns this store."

"So what?" he replies coldly, but I can tell this news comes as a surprise. He looks nervous now.

"So I can tell him and have you arrested. You think because you bought some doughnuts this morning with a cute kid, that gives you the right to come back in here and steal stuff?"

"I didn't steal anything."

"Then prove it."

I see his eyes dart to the entrance once again.

"You run, I scream," I say flatly, reading his mind.

"Look, bitch, as long as we're making deals here's one for you: you shut your mouth and turn around, and I walk outta here nice and simple. If not things are gonna get ugly."

Oh here we go. The tough guy routine. This jerk has no idea I live with the king of punk-ass attitudes. Seth pulls this bullshit at least twice a day.

"Save it. You don't scare me," I say, which is true.

If I could think of one word to describe everything about this guy, it would not be danger. It would be fear.

Seeing he's getting nowhere with me, the boy finally sighs. "Fine."

He unzips his bag and takes out some of the items he was trying to steal: a loaf of bread, a pack of socks, Band-Aids, toothpaste and two cans of chicken noodle soup. One by one he puts them on the floor between us. I suddenly feel guilty.

"Pretty random stuff to steal," I say.

"Well you have it back now, so I'm going," he mumbles. With that, he shoulders the backpack and turns to leave.

"Wait," I say.

"Wait what?" he asks, looking back at me, annoyed.

"The other stuff too."

He scoffs. "What other stuff?"

"I've been following you since canned goods, smart-ass. You have stuff from the pharmacy."

"You don't know that."

My hand goes to the walkie-talkie on my hip and hovers over it like in an Old West shootout. I feel like there should be a tumbleweed blowing across the aisle. The boy finally caves and opens his bag again. He takes out two different types of children's cold and flu medicine, a bag of children's honey-flavored cough drops in animal shapes, and a thermometer. Okay, not what I was expecting.

"Is she sick?" I ask, "The little girl from today?"

The boy looks at me for a long time and then finally nods slightly. He lowers his eyes as he puts the stuff on the floor. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, he looks completely defeated and helpless, all tough-guy pretenses gone.

"I'll go ahead and pay for the meds. I really need those," he mumbles.

I glance down at the floor where he's put the items he took, then up at his face. I can't read what's going on inside his head. He stands there stone-faced, cold. Inside my chest, my heart is pumping so fast it hurts.

"Take it," I say before I have time to talk myself out of it.

My dad would kill me if he knew, but who cares. This small act of rebellion is a thrill that courses through my whole body.

"What?" the boy asks.

He drops his cold facade as he looks up at me, his eyes searching my face for signs of deception. I feel myself blushing.

"Take it," I say, a little louder. "There are no sensors. Take all of it and go."

"But-"

"Do you want to get arrested? Go!"

He doesn't thank me and doesn't wait around to see if I'm kidding. With one sweep he grabs the items off the floor and runs for it. A can of chicken noodle soup falls to the floor with a loud bang, but he doesn't stop running to get it. I pick it up. The can is dented now and will have to be marked down.

I feel like I should confess my sin to someone so I head over to the coffee shop that takes up one corner of the store. It's where we sell organic specialty coffees, teas and baked goods for people to enjoy while they're shopping. Ryan is still behind the register counting up his till.

"You know you're technically open for five more minutes right?" I ask.

Ryan looks up through a curtain of blond hair that's fallen across his eyes and flashes me his pretty smile. The boy is gorgeous, but unfortunately for me (and women everywhere) he's also gay.

"Nobody's gonna order coffee five minutes before we shut our doors," he says, "And if they do, they're despicable."

"Well I want a skinny caramel latte," I say, even though I can see he's already cleaned and put away the equipment he would use to make it.

Ryan raises his eyebrows. "Sure thing. That'll be coming right up with a biscotti and a side of Fuck You."

"Okay fine. I'll settle for an ordinary coffee."

Ryan cocks his head at the coffee dispenser next to the register. "Help yourself. I don't serve fellow peasants."

I pour myself a small cup and sit at a round table near the counter. "So don't tell my dad, but I just let someone shoplift."

"What!" Ryan gasps, pretending to look horrified. "Martin Walsh's daughter helping a criminal? This'll be national news by morning! How is he gonna come back from this latest scandal? And will this affect election results? We can only wait and see."

"Shut up," I say with a laugh, throwing a wadded up napkin at him. "I felt sorry for him. Just a kid, probably around my age, stealing bread and stuff. Can you imagine stealing food?"

"Wait, you said a kid? Kinda scruffy looking? Black hoodie?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God, Rory, he was out there panhandling all day long! I could see him through the window. I kept meaning to call the cops. He probably made hundreds of dollars more than you and I did today so stealing food my ass. You got played, Mother Theresa."

"I hope he's okay. He has this little girl with him."

"I didn't see a little girl. Either way, they're gone. Left in this big white van a few minutes ago."

I find myself staring out the window at the empty parking lot.

"There was something about him that was familiar. I swear I've seen his face. The little girl too."

Ryan shrugs. "Who knows. If they're homeless maybe you saw them on the news or something. Hey, you and Gwen should come to my friend's party next weekend on campus. What do you say?"

"I don't know. I have a long week ahead of me. We're rehearsing Giselle and-"

"Dammit, Rory, I'm giving you one whole week to mentally prepare yourself and make peace with the thought of going out and being a normal human being."

"True. That's very generous of you. I'll think about it."

"I guess I'll take what I can get. I can't even remember the last time we hung out. Meaning, not in this coffee shop or the surrounding area," Ryan says, seeing I'm about to interject.

"Sorry. You know how it is."

"Mm," Ryan says, going back to counting up his till.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say.

"See you," he says absently.

I toss my empty coffee cup into the trash can and head back to my register to clock out, the boy in the hoodie still on my mind.