Chapter 3: Thanksgiving Castaway

I worked for Derek for a long time—helping him copy notes in class, wiping his desk after class. I didn’t get much in return: a meal, sometimes two. He’d always bring an extra portion for me, which I split into breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even then, I was never full.

Sometimes he’d trade his chocolate pudding for my help on math homework, or pass me his untouched string cheese under the table. I got creative with leftovers, saving half a granola bar for dinner, scraping peanut butter from the foil with my finger. Still, I went to bed most nights with my stomach grumbling.

Derek would slip me snacks he’d brought from home. “This is beef jerky. My mom brought it back during Christmas—it should still be edible.”

He’d shove the packet at me with a sheepish grin. I tried gnawing the tough, salty strips during study hall, pretending I was too cool to care. My jaw ached, but I savored every bite. Once, Derek caught me chewing so hard my eyes watered and he burst out laughing.

I took it and chewed and chewed, but it was so tough I could barely swallow it.

The jerky was like chewing on a boot, but I didn’t complain. It was better than nothing. I’d tuck the rest in my pocket for later, a little treasure to get me through another class.

“This is a fruitcake from New Year’s.”

He handed it over wrapped in foil, like it was precious cargo. The smell of cinnamon and dried fruit made my mouth water.

I took it—dense and nutty. I chewed and chewed.

It was heavy, each bite sticking to the roof of my mouth. I imagined it was the kind of dessert rich people ate, savoring it like it was the best thing in the world.

“These are graham crackers my mom bought.”

He slid them across the desk, trying to look casual. I could see he was proud to share. The blue Nabisco box looked like a golden ticket to me.

I hesitated for a moment, then quickly tore open the package and munched away.

The crackers crunched in my mouth, crumbs falling onto my workbook. For a few minutes, my hunger faded and all I could taste was sweet relief.

Derek would give me these things during class, and I’d secretly eat them at my desk. One day, after class, he stared at me wide-eyed. “You actually finished two whole boxes of graham crackers?”

I wiped the crumbs from my mouth, cheeks puffed out, and shrugged. “Mm...”

He looked completely defeated. “Melissa, am I going to feed you to death?”

He said it with a mock scowl, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. I grinned back, clutching my stomach like I might explode from all the crackers.

I didn’t know if he could feed me to death, but I was definitely about to starve otherwise.

I wondered sometimes if he knew just how close I came to passing out. But every time he handed over a snack, I thought maybe he understood better than anyone else.

I survived for a long time on the food Derek brought me.

Without him, I might’ve dropped out or worse. He didn’t talk about it much, but he noticed things—the dark circles under my eyes, how I flinched when the lunch bell rang and I had nothing to unpack.

Until Thanksgiving break. At first, I wanted to go home for the holiday. But as soon as I arrived, my mom grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out—she wouldn’t let me stay.

It was a scene straight out of a soap opera, but real—my mom’s jaw set, her grip bruising. She had no patience for my tears. The neighbors peered through their blinds as she pushed me toward the sidewalk.

She said, as long as I insisted on going to school, she wouldn’t recognize me as her daughter. Other girls my age were already off working in Texas, but I was too pampered to go. Since I was so stubborn and disobedient, I shouldn’t rely on the family for anything. Better not to come home at all.

Her words stung like ice water dumped down my shirt. I watched my little sister through the window, her cheeks smeared with mashed potatoes, and my heart twisted. It was Thanksgiving and the only thing I wanted was to belong.

I sniffled, hugging my backpack, standing awkwardly at the door. The smell of roast turkey, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie drifted from the kitchen. The front door was wide open. My mom brought out the turkey, and my younger siblings scrambled for it. My little sister clutched a drumstick and glanced at me, only to get a smack from my mom. “Eat your food, what are you looking at her for?”

My sister stopped, sitting obediently. I lowered my head, the dim light from inside stretching my shadow out the door—my shadow looked as dejected as I felt.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve, wishing I could disappear right into that shadow. I heard laughter inside—my brother telling a joke, my mom shushing him, the sound of forks on plates. For a second, I remembered when I was little, curled up under the table, watching my mom carve a Thanksgiving turkey and sneaking bites of marshmallow-topped yams. Back then, I belonged. Now, I was just an outsider.

Later, my mom closed the door, and the light disappeared. I hugged my backpack and left. That night, I slept at the bus station.

I curled up on a hard plastic bench, using my backpack as a pillow, pulling my jacket tight around me. The neon light flickered, and someone’s radio played country music too loud. My stomach cramped, but I was too tired to care.

The next morning, I woke up and saw Derek. He was traveling with his parents and was startled to spot me by the ticket gate.

He blinked in surprise, his hair still messy from sleep. He had on an old Marshall High hoodie, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. For a second, I thought maybe I was dreaming.

"Why are you here?"

I could barely look at him. "My mom won’t let me stay at home. It’s warmer here at the station."

"Damn, is that your real mom?"

He sounded half-joking, but his eyes were soft. He glanced around, like he was trying to piece together the whole story without asking too much.

"Yeah."

I shrugged, not trusting myself to say more. I stared down at the scuffed tile, tracing a crack with my shoe.

"..."

That day, Derek didn’t get on the bus. I don’t know what he said to his parents, but after they left, he stayed behind.

I watched his parents wave from the station door, a mix of confusion and concern on their faces. Derek just stuffed his hands deeper in his jacket and turned to me.

After seeing his parents off, he came back and sighed. “Come on, come to my place.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I hesitated, then nodded, my throat tight with relief.

He walked ahead. I quickly shouldered my backpack and followed. Derek was two years older than me, tall with long legs—every step he took, I had to take three.

I jogged to keep up, my shoes slapping the pavement. He looked over his shoulder, grinning at my effort. It made me laugh, even though my eyes were still stinging from last night.

After two steps, he turned and took my backpack. I looked up at him, and he met my gaze with a smile.

The weight lifted off my shoulders, both literally and in my chest. He slung my bag over his own back, not saying a word about how heavy it was.

“Melissa, I must have terrible luck. My parents wanted to take me to the beach, and now I’m stuck carrying your backpack.”

He rolled his eyes, but his voice was gentle. I smiled, finally feeling like maybe the world wasn’t completely against me.

“Sorry.”

“Forget it. Are you hungry?”

He glanced down at me, eyebrow raised, as if daring me to lie.

“Starving...”

“Alright, while your buddy still has money, let’s get you something to eat.”

He winked, and I felt lighter than I had in weeks. As we walked toward the corner diner, my stomach rumbled loud enough for him to hear. We both burst out laughing.

The bell over the door jingled as we walked in, and a waitress in a Santa sweater poured us steaming mugs of cocoa. I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat soak into my fingers. For a while, we just sat, sipping and sharing fries, not saying much. It was the warmest I’d felt all year.