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It was the exact same reason I’d gotten into my fight. It always started with a mean singsong Hey, trashcan girl and ended with me hitting someone, or kicking them, or pulling their hair out, or ripping up their homework.
But this was the first time I’d ever heard of anyone else fighting for me.
It was something.
No. It was everything. Even enough to overshadow my embarrassment that he knew I was trashcan girl.
Of course he’d known what I was called. I shouldn’t have been shocked.
It was his grandmother, after all, that had rescued me.
I’d known the story from the time I could remember. My grandma always said every nasty thing she could think of when she was mad at me, which was a lot, and so it’d come up early and often.
When I was a tiny baby I was abandoned by my parents.
I hadn’t been left on the doorstep of an orphanage or church. I wasn’t abandoned in some frilly basket by a tearful mother.
Even that was too romantic of a story for me.
I was left in a trashcan. Meant to die, I figured. Or rather, Grandma told me I should figure as much when she was telling me the story.
Even my grandma didn’t know who my dad was, but my mom was her daughter, and she explained to me once, after I’d been nagging her for stories about my missing mom, that, “Some women should never be mothers. I’m one of those. And so was my daughter. She won’t come back. I guarantee it. You’re lucky I’m still around. I got nowhere else to go, or I’d be out of here, too.”
That was about as sentimental as we got in my family.
And even I knew that my grandma would have never taken me in if her friend from childhood, Dante’s gram, hadn’t insisted.
I didn’t know her well, but I did know that I owed his gram a lot. My grandma told me so all the time. When she got mad, I often earned rants that started with something along the lines of, “You should thank Mrs. Durant every chance you get. She was the one that talked me into taking you in. You can bet your bratty little ass it wasn’t my idea.”
I’d been found in the trashcan at some point, obviously. No one would tell me how old I was, but I was a baby for sure, a tiny one. Someone had heard me crying, called the cops, and I’d ended up on the news and in the local hospital.
Gram had seen the story on TV, and I don’t know all the details, but she’d put the pieces together and known that Grandma’s daughter had recently given birth, so she’d gone and taken a look at me.
One look, Grandma swears, and it was impossible to deny that Renée Theroux was my mother.
I thought that was weird. All babies looked the same to me.
But Gram and Grandma had been sure, Gram had pressed Grandma, and the rest was history.
Grandma had taken me in, made room for me in her tiny trailer. It did have an extra room. She liked to bring up how she’d liked that room. She’d enjoyed having an extra bit of space to herself where she could sew and store things. We had many, many conversations like that, where she reminded me of all of the reasons why I was a burden to her.
And I wasn’t ungrateful. The place was a dump, but it was a fact that it was better than a trashcan.
Even so, everyone around these parts knew the story, so from my first day of school to present day—I still hadn’t lived down the fact that I’d been thrown away like trash.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was, deep down inside, I knew I was trash. No one wanted me, that was a fact. What was that if not trash?
Needless to say, it was a sore subject, and it didn’t take much to make me lash out when I was teased for it, which was often.
Some days it felt like my life was nothing but one long fight.
But that day was different. That was the day I realized that I just might not be alone in that fight.
When Dante emerged from the office, triumphant from my perspective, considering all he’d gotten was suspended for fighting and then chewing out the vice principal.
I gave him an ear to ear smile.
He returned it with a small one of his own.
