Chapter 2 – Jael
“I’m starving,” I groan as I flop down on the faded, green and black checkered couch in Rhett’s trailer.
It smells like the candles and the incense that his mom always has burning, mixed with coconut. I used to think it was way too strong of a combination, but after spending most of my summer with Rhett and his mom, it’s just… familiar now. The kind of smell that calms me and makes me feel safe.
Which is the total opposite of how I ever feel in the trailer where I live with my parents.
“Well, don’t come over here and eat all my snacks,” he snaps back at me.
I roll my eyes. “Your mom said that I can have one of whatever you’re having.”
Rhett sighs, crouching to rummage through the tiny cupboard under the sink that doubles as their pantry. After a couple seconds of searching, he pulls out two bags of off-brand cheese crackers labeled Really Cheese! Without looking, he tosses one my way.
We’ve long since decided that these snacks contain absolutely zero actual cheese. The name is clearly just some kind of desperate marketing ploy. “Trust us! It’s Really cheese in here!”
I grumble under my breath as I tear the bag open.
These are, hands-down, my least favorite of the Millers’ snack stash, but I’m hungry enough not to care too much.
I shove handfuls into my mouth and crunch my way through the whole bag as fast as possible, figuring the sooner they’re gone, the quicker the dull, ache of hunger in my stomach will disappear.
When I finish, I lick the questionable cheese dust from my fingers and sigh. “I’m still hungry.”
Rhett raises an eyebrow at me. “Damn. Doesn’t Meredith feed you?”
The teasing question stings more than he probably realizes.
I wince, trying to hide it on my face, but the reality is hard to ignore: my mom can barely scrape together enough to keep us in that run-down trailer.
What little money she manages to make either disappears in my dad’s losing bets or gets swallowed by his all-day alcohol addiction.
Most nights, dinner is more of an idea than an actual event.
I typically go to bed hungry, eager to eat the free lunch that our public school offers in the morning.
Rhett notices my reaction and sighs, running a hand through his short, brown hair.
“Look, I get it,” he says, softer now. “But our snack options are limited, and my mom’s got a freakishly good memory for pantry inventory.
I swear she counts the cans every night before bed.
She’s like the soup kitchen Gestapo or something.
If I eat more than my share, she’s on me in two seconds flat and then we’ll both get in trouble. ”
I laugh. “So, what, we just starve?”
“Nah,” he says, his grin returning. “There’s a couple of old fruit trees by that abandoned church about a mile from here—cherry and mulberry, I think. They’re just sitting there, waiting for us to pick. Want to take a walk and grab some free food?”
I nod eagerly. A trek for fresh fruit beats sitting around hungry any day.
◆◆◆
Ten minutes later, we’re trudging through a cornfield, the towering stalks rustling around us as we approach the old church.
It looks exactly how I remembered it from when we biked past it last: a crumbling relic with boarded-up windows and doors, its’ peeling white paint almost completely worn away.
There’s a faded NO TRESPASSING sign nailed crookedly to the front, as if whoever put it up knew it wasn’t going to scare anyone away from exploring.
To the left of the church, an overgrown graveyard stretches out, the headstones so old and weathered that most of the names and dates are unreadable now.
To the right is a wide, empty field where two gnarled trees standalone, their branches heavy with dark, ripe fruit. My mouth waters as soon as I spot them.
Rhett glances around, squinting at the gravel road that connects the church property back to the rest of Whitewood Creek. “We gotta be quick. No idea if anyone’s gonna drive by.”
I hesitate. “So, we’re technically trespassing?”
He shrugs, shooting me a crooked grin. “Probably. But come on, it’s a church. Helping a couple hungry charity cases like us is basically their whole mission, right? We’re just taking what’s owed to us.”
I roll my eyes but follow him as he crosses the field to the first tree. He jumps, grabs a low-hanging branch, and hoists himself up with complete confidence that the thing isn’t going to snap off. Luckily, he’s right.
“Catch!” he calls down, tossing a handful of berries my way.
I scramble for the bucket that we brought and hold it out right.
Before we’d left on our mission, we’d grabbed one of his mom’s old plastic trick-or-treat buckets from a storage closet, and I hold it up now, trying to catch the fruit that he’s pelting at me.
Most of it makes it into the bucket, but now and then, a berry smacks me on the arm or bounces off my forehead.
“Aren’t you an athlete? Shouldn’t your aim be better?” I mutter, rubbing my temple where cherry juice is smeared.
“You’re supposed to move to catch them, genius,” he calls down, snickering.
By the time the first tree is stripped bare of the fruit that he can reach, the bucket is about halfway full. Rhett climbs down, brushing bark and leaves from his hands, and we move to the second tree.
“What’s this one?”
“Mulberries. They're good. Here, try one,” he says picking one off a branch and handing it to me. I bite into the sweet and tart berry, the juices coating my tongue and working to ease the dull empty feeling in my stomach. It’s almost enough to help me forget that this is only the second thing that I’ve eaten today.
“Yum. They’re delicious.”
We top off our bucket with the mulberries and then turn to make the long truck back to the trailer park community.
“You think we can eat half of this before your mom notices?” I ask.
“She’ll notice,” Rhett says, hefting the bucket on his shoulder. Then he glances at me and grins. “But it’ll be worth the punishment we get.”
And I can’t help but agree. When we arrive back in the park, we sit along the shore of the lake under a tall oak tree and eat, tossing the seeds and stems into the water until we’re scraping the bottom of the bucket for any last pieces.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Rhett says, walking to the edge of the water and pretending to barf.
“Better than being hungry,” I say, shrugging and shoveling another handful of cherries into my mouth.
He turns to the side, eyeing me curiously.
We’ve spent a whole month together now but other than me following him around, badgering him with questions about my new middle school, swimming in the lake and watching him tinker on an old truck that’s parked in front of his mom’s home, we haven’t had any serious conversations.
“So, why’d you move here anyway?” he asks when he returns to my side on the bank.
“We couldn’t afford our house in Charlotte anymore and my mom said it was cheaper to live in a small town than the city. I think my dad’s gambling caused us to lose all their money, or something.”
He nods, listening. “Well, school starts in less than two weeks. I don’t want you to think I’m going to be your tour guide and best friend or anything just because we spent the summer together.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t want to be your friend either, Rhett.”
Though it would be nice to have at least one familiar face on my side...
◆◆◆
“You’re such a jerk!” I shout at Rhett, who’s standing on the edge of the lake behind our trailer park, grinning with my Barbie Dream Boat in his hands, ready to toss it into the water below.
“Who even plays with Barbies anymore? We’re in eighth grade now, you know?” he retorts.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. I know that Barbies are for kids, but it doesn’t help that he’s rubbing it in my face. “So what? I like them.”
“Well, I’m not sure how they did things in Charlotte, but I promise you, none of the girls here in Whitewood Creek are still playing with Barbies. I’m pretty sure Molly stopped playing with them when she was ten years old.”
I stomp my foot angrily. “It’s none of your business what I play with. Just give me my boat back!”
But my angry and persistent words don’t faze Rhett. He looks me dead in the eyes as he releases the pink boat from his hands, causing it to crash into the lake below with a dramatic splash.
“You’re an asshole Rhett Miller!” I shout at the top of my lungs, not caring if his mother or any of our other neighbors hear me cuss. My mom calls my dad that all the time and it feels fitting for Rhett. I run forward, scooping the boat out of the lake before it can sink to the bottom.
I’m not that na?ve. I know Barbies are supposed to be for little girls, and I’m on the brink of high school, where most kids would think playing with them is babyish or downright weird. But to me, they’re so much more than toys, they’re an escape.
They’re the only thing I managed to bring with me from Charlotte that my mom didn’t pawn off for gas money or groceries. Everything else—my books, my stuffed animals, even my old bike—was sold off piece by piece while we tried to pay off old debts and outrun the mess that my parents left behind.
The Barbies? They survived, tucked away in my backpack like a secret piece of myself that I refused to give up. When I play with them, it’s not just about dressing them up or setting up their dream house. It’s about imagining a world where everything is right, where my family is happy and safe.
In that world, Barbie and Ken love Stacey like she’s the most important thing in the world. They never yell, never slam doors, never drink themselves into a rage. Stacey spends her days by the pool with her best friend, Skipper, giggling and floating in the sunshine without a single worry.