Children's Fiction Chapter Books
The Girl in The Mall
- Publisher
- CAVERN OF DREAMS PUBLISHING
- Initial publish date
- Sep 2016
- Category
- Chapter Books
-
Paperback / softback
- ISBN
- 9781927899526
- Publish Date
- Sep 2016
- List Price
- $16.95
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Where to buy it
Recommended Age, Grade, and Reading Levels
- Age: 12 to 17
- Grade: 7 to 12
Description
Life hasn’t been easy for fifteen-year-old Andi. When tragedy strikes, Andi runs away, and the Eaton Centre in downtown Toronto seems a good place to call ‘home.’ But after a few short weeks, Andi realizes life in the mall isn’t all she thought it would be. Fifteen-year-old Noah is shocked when he sees a girl in the mall’s food court taking food from other people’s trays. Determined to help, he befriends Andi, who, in exchange, makes him promise to keep her secret. As Andi’s situation becomes dire, both Andi and Noah know she can’t keep living like this. Can Noah convince Andi to finally get help? And, can Andi convince herself that she not only needs help, but deserves it as well?
About the authors
Excerpt: The Girl in The Mall (by (author) R.E.G.I.N.A. JETLEB; cover design or artwork by T.E.R.R.Y. DAVIS; prepared for publication by CAVERN OF DREAMS PUBLISHING)
A N D I CHAPTER ONE FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1981 It’s nearing midnight as I slowly walk up the driveway to my house. I stop at the back door and fish in my purse for my keys. Grandma should be passed out by now, I think. I can’t see a light in the kitchen or in the living room. I insert my key in the lock and turn it, being careful not to rattle the keys. Thank God I remembered to drizzle vegetable oil on the creaky hinge of the back door last week. Thanks to my efforts, it opens without a sound. I tiptoe up the stairs, being careful to skip the wonky third step from the bottom, and slink into the house. I feel like a prowler on the loose looking for stuff to steal. The only thing I want though, is to steal into my room without running into my grandmother. As I walk by the living room I can smell the vomit. Wonderful. The old cow must have puked and not bothered to clean it up. There is no way I’m going anywhere near that mess tonight. There’ll probably be hell to pay for me tomorrow morning about it, but tonight I’m throwing caution to the winds and going to bed. I take off my coat, go to the bathroom to give myself a quick sponge bath so I won’t smell too gross, and brush my teeth. I tiptoe to my room and fall into bed. I fall asleep thinking at least Grandma is out cold for the night. I don’t smell any cigarette burning so I don’t have to worry she’ll fall asleep with a lit cigarette and burn down the house. I wake up early the next morning. The sun is just beginning to creep over the horizon. With any luck, I can get out of the house while my grandmother is still sleeping off last night’s bender. I throw on some clothes, brush out my shaggy mop of hair, and go into the kitchen. Several days’ worth of dishes sit in the sink, crusting over. From the look of it, my grandmother fried—and I R. Jetleb 2 | P a g e burned—herself some potatoes for supper last night. She’s tossed the heavy black pan in the sink on top of a drinking glass, breaking it. Really? Now I have to clean up broken glass? I open the cabinet door beside the sink to get myself a bowl for some cereal. I’ll clean up after eating. As I open the fridge to take out some milk, I accidentally dislodge a big metal bowl full of salad and it falls to the floor with a huge clang. Shit! If Grandma isn’t awake now, she will be. I quickly start to pick up the mess, expecting her to round the corner any second, yelling and berating me for waking her up. The mess cleared away, I balance the salad bowl in the sink on top of all the other crap in there and grab a box of cereal. Where is Grandma? I’d thought by now she’d have come in, hollering. Odd. I decide to sneak a look around the corner into the living room to see what the old bat is up to. I peek, plugging my nose at the vomit-rocious odour wafting out of the living room. Grandma’s lying on her back on the couch. Vomit is stuck to her chin and running down her neck. She’s got one arm up over her head and the other dangling off the couch, her fingers grazing the blue and gold carpet. I drift a little closer. She doesn’t seem to be moving at all. I don’t hear her snoring, either. I move in even closer for a better look. What the hell? Is she unconscious? “Grandma? You okay?” I stage whisper. Nothing. No response. Now that I’m this close, I can see her chest isn’t rising and falling. She isn’t breathing. I edge a little closer and put two fingers on her neck to feel for a pulse, as I’d learned from the first aid course I took last summer. She has no pulse, and her skin feels cold. She’s dead. She choked to death on her own vomit. A thought occurs to me that makes my heart skip a beat: she was probably already dead last night! I’ve spent the night in a house with a corpse! Someday, in the far, far off future, this will make a fantastic story. Not today, though. I back away, almost stumbling over the coffee table. I can’t help the hysterical giggle that escapes my throat, in spite of the awful situation I’m in. “The wicked witch is dead.” What the hell should I do? I spend almost an hour pacing around the house, trying to come up with a plan. If I call for emergency help and they find me here, suddenly an orphan, I’ll end The Girl in the Mall 3 | P a g e up back in foster care. Once was enough, thank you very much. I’d landed in a foster home after Mom died. Social Services had made a home visit to assess how we were coping; they had discovered Grandma was hitting the bottle heavily, and I was removed from the home so Grandma could concentrate on getting help for her drinking problem. I spent six months in a home with a kid who ate paper, roomed with another who kept me up all night with screaming nightmares, and an older boy who... I give myself a shake. What the hell am I doing? Standing here reminiscing about a crappy time in my life while standing over my dead grandmother’s body? I need to get a grip. I head into the kitchen, get myself a cold glass of water, and take a huge gulp. I need a plan. I’ll be better off living on my own until I became an adult. Finding a foster home will no longer be an issue. I just need a place to live. I don’t have any close friends, so I can’t crash at anyone’s house. I have kept everyone at bay to keep them from getting to know me better and finding out I’m living with an alcoholic. I don’t want to live on the streets, either. I’ve seen enough After School Specials about life on the streets and I want no part of selling myself for sex and then handing over money to some abusive pimp. What I need is a warm, dry place indoors. Then it hits me. They opened a new mall downtown three or four years ago. It’s so huge and fancy it’s considered a tourist attraction. It will be open seven days a week and on holidays—it’s perfect! Now that I’ve decided where I will live, it’s a simple thing to pack a duffel bag. My bag packed and my plan hatched, I leave the house. I don’t lock the back door, and I don’t look back. I go to the bank and withdraw almost all my savings, which are pathetically small. It will have to do for a start. I curse myself for steadily spending my babysitting earnings on books, snacks, and bus tickets. I get a raised eyebrow from the teller when I all but empty my account, but she doesn’t comment. All that is left to do is to call 911 from a payphone and head off to my new home: The Eaton Centre.
