Chapter 4: Oranges and New Beginnings

I stayed at Derek’s house for seven days. His home was nothing like mine. My family had four kids—older ones crying, younger ones making a racket. Four kids squeezed into one room, always a mess.

His place was a world away—quiet, warm, like a magazine ad for a perfect family. There was a faint smell of cinnamon in the air, a lazy golden retriever sprawled on the couch, ESPN on mute in the background, and a fridge packed with Greek yogurt and leftover takeout.

Derek was an only child. His whole house was neat and clean, with maple trees in the neighborhood, an elevator, a guest room, and flowers on the balcony. The only problem: there was nothing to eat.

I wandered through the kitchen at night, opening every cabinet and drawer. The pantry looked full but it was all quinoa and gluten-free cereal. I’d never felt so out of place—hungry in a house filled with food I didn’t know how to eat.

I woke up hungry in the middle of the night, searching the whole house but couldn’t find a single bite—not even a graham cracker. Finally, my eyes landed on the little orange tree on the balcony.

Moonlight spilled through the sliding glass door, illuminating a potted tree heavy with fruit. The oranges glowed like Christmas lights, and my mouth watered just looking at them. I was so hungry I thought about eating the peel, too.

I stared at the oranges for half an hour, until Derek walked by and shrieked:

"Geez, there’s a ghost!"

His voice cracked, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned, hair wild, clutching the balcony railing. He gaped at me, wide-eyed.

I froze, turning to look at him. Only then did he realize it was me.

His face went from terror to embarrassment in a heartbeat. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to play it cool.

“No way, Melissa, why are you squatting on the balcony? Oh—the oranges... If you want to eat, just pick them.”

He waved his hands, still a little shaky. I hesitated, then reached up and plucked the ripest orange. The juice dripped down my chin as I bit into it, sweet and sharp.

That night, Derek was so scared he nearly cried, and I cried too—hugging the orange, so moved. The orange was delicious, so sweet.

I sat cross-legged on the balcony, tears streaming down my cheeks, half from hunger, half from relief. Derek stood there, pretending not to notice, then quietly handed me a napkin.

The next day, Derek took me out grocery shopping and bought snacks. He warned me repeatedly: “Melissa, you’re not allowed to squat on the balcony at night with the lights off and your hair down. It’s creepy.”

He tried to look serious, but I could see he was trying not to laugh. I nodded, promising never to haunt his house again.

I nodded vigorously, looking at him with gratitude. He met my gaze, froze for a second, then burst out laughing.

We left the store with a giant bag of groceries, Derek joking about setting up an alarm on the balcony just for me. I hugged the bag to my chest, the happiest I’d been in months.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

That day, after we got back, I cooked, did my homework, and helped Derek with his studies. He wasn’t very interested, lazily glancing at the workbook, half-listening.

I tried to keep him focused, tapping my pencil on the page, but his mind wandered. He doodled on his notebook, asking me if I thought aliens were real. We ended up laughing so hard we forgot about homework altogether.

Later, he suddenly remembered something and picked up my school ID.

He squinted at the tiny photo, comparing it to my real face. I rolled my eyes, knowing what was coming.

“Melissa, you’re in high school—how come you’re only fourteen?”

His tone was suspicious, like he’d just uncovered a government conspiracy.

I thought for a moment and explained seriously. “I skipped grades in elementary school. I didn’t go to preschool, started first grade at six, then transferred straight to third grade. So I’m two years younger than everyone else.”

I felt a little proud saying it—like all those lonely hours reading had finally meant something.

He clicked his tongue. “What’s the rush?”

“My parents always said I had to start working at sixteen. When I was little, I thought if I could get into college before sixteen, I wouldn’t have to work. But then I found out high school cost tuition, and my parents still wanted me to go work. They said, outside, no one checks your age. As long as you go, you can earn money even at fourteen.”

It sounded ridiculous now, but at the time, it was the only plan I had. Derek just shook his head, looking at me like I’d grown a second head.

Derek was silent for a long time, then let out a laugh, half-angry, half-amused. “Fourteen... Your parents are really something.”

He leaned back, tossing my ID onto the table. I laughed too, trying to shake off the sting of his words.