Chapter 5 The First Real Lie

The worst part isn't doing it.

It's deciding you're going to.

I've walked past the mini-mart on 12th Street a thousand times. I know the cashier switches shifts at five. I know the cameras are fake-just little black domes that don't blink, don't move. And I know where they keep the cash tray behind the counter, because Mom used to buy smokes here, always paying in wrinkled bills and waiting for exact change like it mattered.

I watch for three days. Like a ghost. Hoodie up, notebook in my backpack in case anyone asks why I'm standing across the street. A school project, I'll say. Sociology or something.

But I'm not watching for answers. I'm watching for weaknesses.

The plan's simple.

In, act normal, grab some stuff. One of those moments where everyone looks away for just long enough.

But when your heart's racing like a stolen car and your hands won't stop shaking, even simple things feel like tightropes over open sky.

The bell jingles when I walk in.

Smells like hot plastic and overripe bananas.

The girl at the counter is new-maybe a year or two older than me. She's scrolling on her phone, barely glances up.

I walk the aisles slowly. Grab a pack of ramen. A bottle of water. A snack bar. All small. All slippable into the lining of my coat while I pretend to check expiration dates.

My breath is so loud I think she can hear it.

When I slide the last item into my pocket, my hand brushes the edge of a metal rack. It clatters.

She looks up.

"You good?"

My voice nearly cracks. "Yeah. Just... clumsy."

She nods. Goes back to her screen.

I walk up to the counter, place a cheap pack of gum and a can of soda in front of her. Pay with a dollar I found under the couch last night. My hands are ice.

She doesn't even blink.

"Have a good one," she says.

"Yeah," I mutter. "You too."

The second I step outside, the wind hits me like a slap. My legs go weak. I duck behind the dumpster, crouch down, and count everything I took.

Seven dollars' worth of food. Maybe eight.

I feel sick.

But I don't throw up. I don't cry. I just sit there, breathing hard, thinking:

That was it. That was the first real lie. Not a white one, not a dodge-a decision.

Flashback:

Mom once told me, "Sometimes the world takes from you first. If it does, you take something back. That's just the math of surviving."

At the time, I thought it was just one of her excuses.

Now, I'm not so sure.

That night, I eat warm ramen for the first time in weeks.

Not just warm-boiled. Real steam curling from the cup.

I even light a candle. Not for decoration. Just because it makes the apartment feel less like a cave and more like something... alive.

I make a list with my last piece of clean paper:Rent due: Monday

Food: 3 days max

Power: Still on

Money: $1.19

Hope: TBD

I fold it and tuck it into my journal like it's a holy thing.

Then I check the phone again.

Still no word from Mom.

I take out the coins I have left and walk to the gas station. Buy a prepaid phone card. Twenty minutes of talk time. Just in case.

I could call someone. A shelter. A hotline. Even Cassie.

But I don't.

Not yet.

Rule #7: After the first lie, they get easier.

But that doesn't mean they don't cost you something.

Every time you bend a rule to stay alive, you lose a piece of who you used to be.

Maybe that's the price.

Maybe I can afford it.