Chapter 2 Tessa
TESSA
A WEEK AGO...
I stared into the dumpster for a heartbeat—my body teetering precariously as my stomach pressed brutally into the wide metal lip—and then I began to dig.
There’s got to be something. I’m starving.
I couldn’t get too overzealous though. One wrong move, and I’d fall inside.
That happened a few weeks ago. I’d spent hours picking eggshells from my matted hair.
The dumpster smelled like last month's leftovers, which for me always translated into mom’s spaghetti bolognese with fresh basil, but only because of this one time my father was so sick of eating it that he pushed a full container to the very back of our massive fridge.
He’d hid it behind infrequently used fish sauce and hoisin.
Mom found it the next month growing mold.
My Omega mother didn’t often yell at my giant Alpha father, but she’d made an exception that day.
She always took her pasta seriously. She was so fierce that my Alpha uncles intervened, holding her back.
She probably would have calmed down faster, if my father hadn’t egged her on saying how cute she was when mad.
Thinking about their silly fight almost made me smile despite my current activity. Almost. Memories of my family were a double-edged sword providing brief joy chased by cutting pain.
Josie perched on a nearby ledge, her green eyes encouraging. She meowed loudly as if to say: ‘Come on, you can do it!’
“Obviously I’ll find something for us, silly cat,” I responded out of habit. "What kind of Omega would I be if I can’t even feed you?”
That was the question every day. What kind of Omega am I?
Why am I still trying? Wouldn’t it be easier to.
.. I shut down the depressing rhetoric before it could really gear up.
I doubled down my efforts, even though I was one cracked nail away from giving up.
It really wouldn’t take much these days.
Josie's meows echoed in the grimy alley. She was a mini, furry drill sergeant, always pushing me to reach further. It was easy for her to order me around. She was just sitting looking pretty while I did all the hard work. I pushed an empty pizza box aside and almost lost my balance when a family of roaches scurried out from the faded, greasy cardboard. My fingers ached so badly. They were raw and bloody from all the abuse I’d put them through, but giving up wasn’t an option.
My pack's stupid, never-surrender motto pounded in my head—Fortune favors the bold—as I pushed past wilted lettuce and questionable meat, pretending I was on a treasure hunt instead of a pathetic food drive.
Almost two years on the streets hadn't broken me yet.
But... when was the right time to give up?
"Victory!" I shouted, pulling out a barely touched sandwich still mostly wrapped in the signature logo paper of the deli nearby. I waved it like a trophy before my eyes caught sight of a jar directly beneath where the sandwich had rested. I thought I was going crazy, but it looked full. That wasn’t possible. I couldn’t remember the last time I found an unopened item in the garbage.
I snapped it up, having to angle dangerously down and risk a fall.
I got it though, swinging my legs down hard against the dumpster to pop my upper body skyward.
I used the momentum to slide down the front of the mottled, rusted trash receptacle, and landed on my feet with only a little wobble.
I’ve gotten really good at garbage gymnastics. I could be a trash superhero.
The jar was a month expired, unopened container of bread and butter pickle spears. It was like hitting the jackpot. I’d save it for later, for when midnight came and my belly was aching.
I popped the jar into my tattered bag, then stared at the loaded turkey on wheat.
I searched for obvious mold and sniffed for strange smells, fighting the blurring vision and weakness flooding my limbs from lack of food.
I should unfurl the wrapper and part the bread to really check.
Looks could be deceiving when it came to discarded food, but hunger trumped caution today.
I plopped to the ground, sitting crisscross and using my thighs as a prep surface.
Tearing the sandwich in half, I put the side with an obvious bite mark on my left thigh.
Then I unwrapped the paper around Josie's share and placed it on the ground like a tablecloth before serving her meal. She jumped down from her perch, purring in triumph—as if this was her prize after hard work—and sniffed it with the suspicion of a pampered princess. Josie deserved the world, but this was the best I could do. At least I didn’t give her the chewed-on part.
I peeled the paper from the other side of the sandwich, ready to inhale it even if it made me sick.
I’d deal with the fallout later. Heaven knows it wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten violently sick from bad dumpster food.
My better senses took hold before I could shove the whole thing down my gullet though.
I took one tentative bite, and I chewed like slowness was an Olympic sport and I wanted gold. I made myself savor it.
Josie was still sniffing at her piece by the time I was half-finished with mine.
“I know, I know. You’d rather have the raw tuna behind Umami House, but you’ll have to make do.” I nudged it closer to her. She gave me a look, and I swear she rolled her tiny cat eyes, but then she began eating. “See, Josie. A little turkey never killed anyone.”
I hope. I added mentally, because it always was Russian Roulette. One thing I never, ever, ever ate out of the trash these days was anything with seafood. I left that to Josie.
As I forced myself to chew slowly, I was struck—and not for the first time—with how much my life had changed.
It was a long, hard fall from private planes and Switzerland skiing trips to trash diving for day old sandwiches in Seattle.
Sometimes, I tortured myself by walking past my family’s house, our old favorite restaurants, and even the big lot downtown where they set up the Seattle Christmas market.
I went ice skating with dad there. I fell a zillion times, and he always picked me up.
It was a life I’d never have again. It was over.
If you’d told me two years ago that, before the ripe old age of twenty-one, I’d find myself homeless and penniless and constantly avoiding terrible fucking people who saw a young Omega and thought dollar signs, I’d have laughed in disbelief.
Twenty-one.
God. I’d be twenty-one soon. I’d turned nineteen right after the tragedy. My stupid birthday was part of the reason my parents had given in and let me stay behind for the concert. We were supposed to have a big party when they got home.
Then they never got home.
“I’m an adult now.” How many times had I whined those same words? “Don’t you trust me at all?”
Trust. Ha. I trusted no one for a long time. Even street friends sold each other out for a little comfort.
It wasn’t until I’d stumbled on some asshole kids throwing rocks at Josie that I’d found a lifeline.
She’d been the tiniest kitten. I’m not ashamed to say I’d scared those kids so badly that one wet his pants.
I’m sure I’d looked deranged then, with my designer dress in rags and my curly hair wild around my face.
I’d rescued Josie though. Named her. And she’d become my new world.
Now look at us. We’re dirty and thin and disheveled. But we’ve got each other. She’s my only friend in the world, this orange tabby cat with a crooked tail who’s missing a chunk of her left ear.
As if she could hear my thoughts, Josie meowed happily and rubbed her body soothingly against my forearm. She’d eaten most of her sandwich piece. I hoped, someday, I could give her a better life.
“I love you too, silly cat.” I rubbed affectionately between her ears and then picked her up to slip into my messenger bag.
She protested at the weight and size of the pickle jar.
It encroached on her cozy ride. But I didn’t want anyone else to see it.
It was mine. I didn’t want to share, even with the few Betas and Omegas I’d befriended.
When I stood up, I positioned the messenger bag comfortably against my hip.
I brushed loose debris from my khakis, courtesy of the shelter’s clothes closet.
That stuff was supposed to be for people living at the Seattle Saints’ Shelter, to clean up for job interviewers and such, but the Beta sisters of Hearts Over Seattle were kind that way.
They never turned me away, even if they didn’t have a bed available.
I mean, I couldn’t sleep on the floor there because of occupancy regulations, but they still fed me and let me replace clothes when mine got too shabby.
My outfit right now was still in pretty good shape.
I could almost walk into a store and look presentable.
.. I mean, except for the filthy hair and body.
I only got a shower once a week though, when the shelter opened the facilities to the homeless before and after Wednesday’s soup kitchen.
By days five and six, I looked pretty rugged.
As I started walking, my stomach growled anew, like I didn’t already know the half a sandwich wasn’t enough.
No food foraging ever filled it. I was always operating at half-empty.
The hunger was just a familiar soundtrack.
I could ignore it, and the cramping as my stomach tried to digest what I’ve finally eaten.
It’s good, in a way. It was a gnawing reminder that I was still alive.
And I shouldn’t be.
Whatever fates were at work, weaving the lives of us stupid fucking mortals, they’d really done a doozy on my destiny.