Chapter 3 Hustle

There's surviving, and then there's hustling.

Surviving is waiting around, hoping things change.

Hustling is realizing they won't-and doing something about it.

I start with the drawers. Mom's dresser, bottom one first. It's where she hid stuff-receipts, old photos, broken jewelry. I find a tangled mess of earrings, most missing their pairs. A button that doesn't match any shirt. An old hairbrush with strands of her copper hair still caught in the bristles.

Then, jackpot.

A necklace. Silver chain, kind of thin, but it's got a little blue gem on the end-cheap, probably, but pretty. She used to wear it when she wanted to feel fancy. Said it made her feel like someone important. Like a person who got to choose things.

Sorry, Mom.

I pocket it, shove the drawer closed.

School is not happening today.

The thought makes me feel reckless and sick, like jumping into deep water without checking the bottom. But what am I going to do there-learn trigonometry while my stomach chews itself?

I take the long way out of the neighborhood, hoodie up, shoulders hunched like armor. The pawn shop's across town, on the edge of the industrial zone where everything looks like it's been burned or abandoned. The sign says "GOLD N' LOANS," with one of the letters missing.

Inside, the guy behind the counter has hair like a grease mop and a face full of suspicion.

He takes the necklace, turns it in his hands like he's judging more than the value. Maybe judging me, too.

"Real silver?" I ask, pretending I care.

He grunts. "Plated. Not much. I'll give you twenty."

I hesitate. It feels like selling a piece of Mom. Like trading her memory for pocket change.

But twenty bucks is twenty bucks.

I nod. He slaps the bill on the counter. "Don't come back trying to buy it back unless you got thirty."

"Yeah," I say. "Sure."

I walk out fast. The air feels colder now, and my hands won't stop shaking.

I head toward the bus stop, already thinking about how to stretch the cash. Bread. Canned soup. Maybe some fruit. Something warm.

That's when I hear someone call my name.

"Helena?"

I flinch. Turn slow.

It's Dina. From school. One of those girls who's not exactly a friend, but not a stranger either. We've partnered on a few projects. She's got big curly hair and eyes that don't miss much.

"What're you doing out here?" she asks.

I fake a smile. "Had a doctor's appointment."

She looks at the bag in my hand. "Pawn shop?"

I shrug. "Sold an old watch. Birthday money."

Her expression shifts, softens. "You okay?"

The question stings. Too direct. Too kind.

"I'm fine," I lie.

She nods like she doesn't believe me but won't push. "You know... if you need anything-like anything-you can text me."

"I'm good."

She doesn't push it. Just gives me a look, like she sees more than I want her to.

Then she walks off, backpack bouncing, hair catching the sunlight.

I spend the twenty carefully.

Three cans of soup. A loaf of bread. A can of beans. Two bananas. A bottle of water. One granola bar that I eat on the bus before I even get home.

Gone in under ten minutes.

I dump the bags on the counter and feel this weird mix of pride and shame. I made it happen. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

I eat the soup straight from the can, cold, while sitting on the floor.

It tastes like salt and metal. But it fills the hole.

I think about Dina. Her eyes. That look.

She knows something's up.

I've got to be more careful.

Rule #5: Eyes are everywhere.

Even the kind ones.

Especially the kind ones.

By nightfall, I make another list. What I still have. What I still need. What's left to sell.

The answer is: not much.

But I'll figure it out.

I always do