I lay awake in bed, fighting sleep with all my might. I even had coffee before crawling in! Mom doesn’t know that, though. I just don’t want to fall asleep and risk having another one of those nightmares.

Much to my dismay, the coffee is not working… at all.

When I check the clock, I see that only two minutes have passed since the last time I looked, which means it is now 2:31. I’m beginning to feel lonely and bored.

As soon as I grab my phone, it buzzes and alerts me that I have just received a text.

Really? At 2:31 in the morning?

Reading who it’s from, I sigh. I should have known.

Pretty dress, but you’re still no Beauty.

Sincerely,

The Beast

Why does everything he says have to be so hurtful? I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does sometimes.

Me: Chase, what are you talking about?

Chase: Oh, nothing.

Me: Are you stalking me?!

Chase: You’re not cool enough for me to stalk you.

Groaning, I grit my teeth. Will he just quit it?

I stare at my screen for a while, hoping that if I don’t respond, he will just come out with how he knows what I was wearing. I’m really beginning to feel creeped out now.

A bubble appears at the bottom of the screen, indicating that the Beast is typing. My phone makes a ‘whoosh!’ sound when I receive the text.

Chase: Truth hurts, doesn’t it? L

Me: Tell me how you know!!

Chase: Know what? That you’re no Beauty? Because I saw you just the other day.

Me: I know you know what I’m talking about, Chase. You’re not THAT dumb.

Chase: Ouch. L

Me: Truth hurts, doesn’t it? J

Chase: Oh, backsies. Very mature.

Chase: Anyway, your picture is up on Facebook. A girl named Monica uploaded it a few hours ago. I’m guessing you know her?

Me: Oh, wow! You have enough friends to make creating a Facebook account worth it?

Chase: Yes, and actually, I have more Facebook friends than you. J

Me: And you know this how…?

Chase:J 

Chase: Sweet dreams, Abigail. Dream of me. J

Me: Not possible to do both.

Chase: Night. -_-

♥ • ❤ • ♥

The clock says it is exactly 7:00 A.M. when I open my eyes, and for once, I’m not bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start the day. In fact, the first thing I feel is a major headache.

Remembering that I promised to help at the food pantry today, I groan, as I’m not sure I feel well enough. Then I remember that a lot of my friends will be there.

The light from my window hurts my eyes, and I feel achy all over. It takes a lot of effort to get out of bed, but knowing that I need to be there in an hour, I push through it.

The piping hot shower is soothing on my sore muscles and when I’m finished, I feel refreshed.

By the time I reach the breakfast table, Dad has left for work and Mom is doing devotion.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom says brightly. Tilting her head, she questions, “Are you feeling okay? Did you have another one of those horrible nightmares again?”

“No, I have a really bad headache,” I mumble, hardly wanting to open my eyes.

“Aw, I’m sorry, honey. Do you want an ice pack, or would you prefer a pain killer?”

“Neither, thanks,” I answer. I don’t like ice packs because they feel gross, and I would prefer not to take pain killers because they’re dangerous. But five minutes later, when it intensifies by ten, I decide that I do need the fast-working arsenal after all.

I get up from the couch with turtle-like slowness and hurry in snail-like fashion into the bathroom. Reaching for the wicker basket full of first aid supplies in the closet, I pull out the pain medicine that my mom originally offered.

I take two bright orange Motrin tablets, then suddenly remember that I need food in my stomach with this medication. My mother’s warnings about ulcers race around in my head, making it hurt even more.

On my way to the kitchen, I try to think of what I can eat quickly. Once there, I search the fridge, but there are no instant meals, except my leftovers, and I’m certainly not in the mood for crab cakes, nor chili. The thought of eating those is intensifying this sudden, horrible nausea.

In the pantry, I find oatmeal, tuna, cookies and more. Choosing to avoid something that might make it all worst, I decide against the cookies and other junk food. Instead I reach for the tuna.

“Are you looking for something to eat, sweetheart?” my mom asks, looking at me from over her glasses as she sets her lime green and brown bible down on the dining table.

“Yes,” I answer. “I took two Motrin tablets, completely forgetting that I needed to eat first.”

“I started making you an egg sandwich,” she says as she returns to the stove, “but if that’s not what you want, I’d be happy to whip something else up for you.”

“Ooh!” I say like an excited child. “The egg sandwich sounds perfect! I’ll help you make it! Can you make it a quadruple decker?”

“You would have to unhinge your jaws first, and I thought you said you were nauseous!”

Mom’s infamous egg sandwiches have always been my favorite thing to have in the morning, along with a big glass of orange juice.

Whenever we have friends over for breakfast, her triple-decker B.L.T.E.’s become the topic of conversation. She makes these with Pepperidge Farm multigrain bread, layers of lettuce, tomatoes, bacon and over-easy eggs with Miracle Whip salad dressing and another secret ingredient which I haven’t been able to get her to share with me yet.

When she makes it for others, someone always suggests that she opens a restaurant, as her coffees and breakfast pastries are to die for as well. Mom always ends up sharing that her dream is to open a bed and breakfast, and she is encouraged to do so by our guests.

It’s become a running joke between my father and I to try and figure out which of the guests will suggest the restaurant idea first, each time we have new friends over.

“Mom, some of your yummy coffee will make the Motrin work faster!”

Mom crosses her arms and gives me a look. “Are you trying to manipulate me?”

“Yes, because your coffee is delicious!” I say coyly. “And it will make the headache go away quicker!”

Despite the look of doubt on my mother’s face, she pours us both a cup of coffee. She then adds Triple Sweet Cream flavored Bailey’s coffee creamer, our absolute favorite. She tops these off with a generous amount of vanilla flavored whipped cream, then drizzles chocolate syrup on top of that! The finishing touch – and her secret ingredient – is a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar.

“Mmm!” is all I can say after taking my first sip. I then find my manners and say, “Thank you so much, Mom!”

“Don’t thank me for killing you with the four layers of sugar!” she jokes. “Let me see… The sweet cream, the whipped cream, chocolate syrup and cinnamon sugar. If you didn’t have a headache now, you’d be well set up for one!”

Realizing that I’m running out of time, Mom quickly wraps my sandwich to go and hurries me out to the car. The familiar scenery whizzes by as I eat the delicious sandwich and finish my coffee.

We arrive at the food pantry on the south side of the church as I take the last bite of my sandwich. Mom’s signature coffee was a tasty memory long before we pulled into the church’s beautiful entrance.

Mom gives me a tight hug, then watches as I’m greeted by Mrs. Anthony, who waves with me as we watch my mother drive away. We then walk inside and I see that I’m the first one here.

“Where is everybody?” I question.

“A few called to say they’re running late, and I’m not sure where Mr. Smith is, but it’s nice to be working with you until they arrive!”

“How many will be here?”

“Only eleven or twelve more that I’m aware of,” she answers.

My jaw drops open when I turn and see the palettes of canned goods and other items piled halfway to the ceiling. I’ve never seen such a stockpile! Still eyeing the mountain of canned goods, I ask, “What will we be working on today Mrs. Anthony?”

“We’ll be bagging up these items,” she says, gesturing to the wall of canned goods. “Will you be able to come tomorrow to help distribute the food to the needy?”

“What time tomorrow?”

“From ten to twelve.”

“I hope I can. I’m not sure yet though. It depends on my mom’s schedule.”

“Fair enough. How’s your summer been? What have you been up to?”

“Nothing much,” I reply. “Hanging out with my friends, writing music and helping a family in need.”

“Oh, the Jones family?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Your youth pastor told me about them, and as a matter of fact, I’ll be giving you guys some of this food to take to them on Thursday.”

“Do they need food?” I blurt out. My face flushes in embarrassment as I wonder how those words escaped without permission. “I mean, I thought they just need help with household chores.”

“I don’t know, honey. The church just wanted to bless them with food in addition to the help you children are giving them.”

“Oh,” is all I can manage to say. The thought of Chase’s family starving upsets me. Then suddenly a dream I had last night comes flooding back to me.

I was wearing the same white dress I wore yesterday to church and I was the center of attention, with people to my left and right, all smiling warmly as I walked by. I was so nervous, as if I were being marched straight to my death. Strangely though, my confidence and fortitude were boosted by their encouraging smiles.

Then suddenly, Chase stepped right in front of my path. He wasn’t pleasant like the others, and he started laughing at me. He laughed mockingly and unceasingly until all my confidence faded. I was suddenly barefooted and in filthy rags.

I looked down in dismay at my clothing and found that I was not only in old, tattered clothing, but my skin was also covered in dirt.  I began to cry as Chase’s laughter ignited a wave of scorn and ridicule from my previously adoring audience.  My adoring audience soon walked out of the banquet room, leaving me alone with the Beast.

The concerned tone in Mrs. Anthony’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Abigail, are you okay?” I had completely forgotten where I was.

“I-I’m fine. Thanks.”

Chase’s text message returns to mind. His last directive was obviously the reason I had that nightmare.

My head suddenly begins to pound again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” I reply, “thank you. I’m fine.”

Just then, the volunteers begin to flood in. Among them are Sierra, Mandy, Claire and Devon.

Clarissa runs over to me as she squeals. “Guess what, Abigail!”

“What?” I ask, trying to sound as excited as she does despite a residual headache.

“My parents are coming with me to the Wednesday night service!”

“That’s awesome!” I say, genuinely happy for her. “What changed their minds?”

“My mom’s favorite aunt just passed away,” she replies, “and she loved God. Right before she died, she shared with my parents about Jesus and the reason He came. She told them that she wanted to see them in heaven, and very plainly said that they’re not going if they don’t accept Jesus as their Savior. Believe it or not, she led them in the prayer of salvation and now they’re actually excited to go to church! But just between you and me,” she continues, lowering her voice, “they’re pretty scared of not being accepted into the church after all they’ve said and done.”

“Well, I’m glad they’re coming! It’s so awesome to know they’re saved, isn’t it?”

“Yes, most definitely.”

“Alright guys, are you all ready to get to work?” Mrs. Anthony asks, loud enough to get our attention as she claps her hands together. “Let’s start with a prayer. Who wants to lead us?”

“I will, Mrs. Anthony,” Devon volunteers.

When he’s finished, I’m actually surprised at the depth of his prayer. Several people pat him on the shoulder and say, “Amen.”

We’re shown the different areas and types of food we’re to place in bags, and where to put them when each are completed.

Mrs. Anthony arranges most of us in an assembly line while others take in food from the truck that has just arrived. A few of the kids are sorting through clothing.

“Mrs. Anthony, what’s this?” Sierra asks, causing us all to look up from our tasks.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Anthony replies, “but please feel free to open it. Perhaps it’s something we can be putting in the bags.”

Devon jokes, “Or perhaps it’s that shipment of snakes I ordered last week!”

“I’m sure the recipients of these bags would love to have one each!” Mrs. Anthony replies in uncharacteristic humor. We all laugh.

“Since they’re your snakes, you come open it,” Sierra says half-jokingly. It’s obvious that she’s a little nervous about what could be inside the box, but she also seems quite curious.

Devon, dramatically rolling up his sleeves, says, “Okay, I’ll be the brave one,” as he takes long strides over to the cause of the commotion. He appears unafraid.

Knowing that we have a short amount of time left, the rest of us get back to work. That, however, immediately comes to an end when a loud cry startles us all.

“It has me!” cries Devon. Nearly his whole left arm is inside the box as he moves around wildly, as if trying to break free. “It has me! No… THEYHAVE ME! I can… my blood! My blood is draining from me!”

“Oops. Looks like you ordered the leeches by mistake…” says a voice from behind. “No, wait, they mixed up our orders! I’ll have to talk to those UPS guys for delivering vampires to a mere child!” A few of the kids giggle at Mr. Anthony’s joke while the rest of us are silent as his wife scolds him. “I was just kidding!” he says, his hands in the air. “Fine, fine.”

“It’s just a box of books,” Devon says with a shrug.

Mandy’s eyes narrow and she places her hands on her hips. “Just a box of books? Just?!”

“I’m sorry, I forgot who was in the room,” Devon replies.

“How dare you disrespect the books?”

“So, let me guess!” Mr. Anthony whispers dramatically. “She’s the book junkie, right?”

“In the worst way,” Devon answers in a low voice. Mandy rolls her eyes as he shrugs and continues, “You know how published authors are.”

Mr. Anthony’s eyes widen, showing his astonishment. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me?” he says to his wife.

“I didn’t know the details,” she replies, looking pleasantly surprised herself. “This is the most she’s ever shared! She’s been keeping her talent a secret!” Mandy blushes from the attention, which is something I know she’d never seek and sometimes even goes out of her way to avoid. She always seems to get a little uncomfortable when people congratulate her.

The rest of the three hours here at the food pantry seem to breeze by. We got a little fifteen minute break to relax and enjoy the pizza from Little Caesar’s that Mr. Anthony brought. I tried it a way I’ve never had it before: with the cheese bread toppings, and it was delicious! I’ll never be able to go back to the original way to have it now.

“Abigail, your mom’s waiting outside,” Devon says, reentering.

“Okay, thanks, Devon.”

“Abigail, Devon, would either of you like to take a few of those little orange juice cartons home with you?” Mrs. Anthony asks. I could never say no to those! “I really appreciate all the help today. You two are the fastest orange juice baggers I know!” Without waiting for a response, she says, “Go ahead and take a bag each.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anthony, but I’m the only one in my house who likes orange juice,” Devon says. I raise a brow at him, surprised. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like orange juice before. Devon, noticing the odd looks on our faces, says, “Calissa says it coats her mouth and feels strange, and my parents say they don’t like the sugar.”

“Really? They’re Tropicana,” Mrs. Anthony replies.

“Oh, okay then. Yes, please! That’s my family’s favorite brand.”

I already feel my mouth watering for it.

Mrs. Anthony returns from the freezer with two bags of orange juice boxes in her hands. She gives one to me, and then hands the other to Devon. We both thank her, then walk out together.

“So, Abigail, did you hear about the picnic the church is going to be hosting?”

I nod. “Yeah, it sounds really fun!”

“Are you planning to go?”

“Of course!”

“Cool. Me too.” Devon smiles, lighting up his incredible hazel eyes. Then we begin to part ways; he goes right to his white Toyota Corolla while I go in the opposite direction toward my mom. “See you around, Abigail.”

“See you, Devon!”

♥ • ❤ • ♥

“How’s your head feeling?” Mom asks, eyeing me closely.

My eyes squinted, I hold my head in my left hand. The bright light coming in from the window in front of me is magnifying the pain by ten. I put my throbbing head down on the cool glass dining table and groan, then finally answer, “It hurts again. Worst now. I think I’m going to take a nap.”

“Good idea,” Mom says. “I imagine you must be tired from all those hours at the food pantry, too, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, getting up from the table. After Mom wishes me a good nap, I leave her clipping coupons on the floor and go upstairs to my room. My headache feels as if it has spread from the left side to both sides, and I can hardly wait for sleep to overtake me. Soon, I feel myself slipping off, and my eyes close involuntarily.

My burning stomach growls so loudly that I’m scared Michael will wake up, since he’s a very light sleeper sometimes.

My eyes fly open and I try to keep them that way, realizing that I was having one of those nightmares again. But I struggle to keep my heavy lids apart…

I slowly and quietly slip out of bed, unable to deny my stomach the food it’s begging for. The next time it growls, I cover it, as if doing so will prevent the noise from getting to my foster brother’s ears. Then I tiptoe toward the bedroom door. When I open it, it squeaks, so I quickly turn around. To my dismay, Michael turns over, but he doesn’t open his eyes as he did last time.

Memories of last time come back to me, causing me to question whether or not this is a good idea. I’d rather go hungry for yet another day than be locked in the car outside again, freezing until I can’t feel my fingers, nor my toes. Or worse, left out in the alley, praying no one notices me. Deep down, I know it would be better if someone found me.

As soon as I reach the edge of the carpet in the hallway, I pause. I’m going to have to be extra careful now so that I don’t make a sound.

I take one step on the tile floor, and am successfully quieter than a mouse. I don’t make a single sound, even as I open the refrigerator. But then, when I slide my arm out of the back to pull out the lunch meat, the gallon of water that was originally in front of it comes flying out and lands at my feet… on its side! The cover has popped off and water now gushes out.

As soon as I bend down to pick it up, I feel something hard hit my bottom. It causes me to lurch forward, slip in the large puddle and bump my head into the open refrigerator door.

“Okay, you have two choices,” Miss Payton says firmly, grabbing my shoulders and forcefully turning me around to face her. I look up at her from the floor, wondering if all these things that happen to me are normal. There has to be more than this. There just has to be.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” I say while sobbing. “I’m sorry Miss Payton… Please don’t send me outside.”

“Shut up and let me speak!” She pauses for a long while, then continues, “Like I said, you have two choices. One is I can give you the spanking of the century right here for scaring your brother awake, or you can go outside and sleep there. Your pick. I’d enjoy the first one, but I’m sure the mosquitos would love me if I send you outside.”

“Outside please!” I say quickly.

“Alright. Go, then. You may come back in a few hours.” Grabbing my curls, she pulls me to my feet, then walks me over to the front door, which she opens dramatically before pushing me out. “Oh, and have fun with the neighbor’s dog,” she says in a very leering tone.

Only seconds after I open my eyes again, a beautiful tune that I can’t remember ever hearing comes to my mind. It doesn’t distract me, though, from the nightmare I just had. It wasn’t the worst of them, but it’s still just as disturbing. I’m disturbed mostly because I can hardly go to bed without fearing a dream like it will come.

It’s dark outside now.

I turn over onto my side and reach for my phone that rests on the nightstand, click the power button, then read the time. 11:41 P.M.

The tune becomes louder in my head, and it’s almost as if I can really hear it. Deciding I can’t just let it go, I get up and go down the stairs to the music room. After closing the door behind me, I hurry over to my Ibanez acoustic guitar – my absolute favorite guitar – while hoping I won’t lose the instrumental that plays in my head. I take it off the stand, then sit down with it on my lap.

Almost instantly, I’m playing that very same tune. The first line of the song comes easily, causing me to expect the rest to come just as easily, but it doesn’t. I’m still writing the second verse when my mom walks in thirty minutes later with a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies in her hands. Milk Chocolate. Yum.

“That’s very beautiful,” she says, being her usual encouraging self. “Promise to teach me how to play one day? I feel left out being the only one in this family who can’t play an instrument!”

“Yeah, Mom, but you have a beautiful voice,” I reply. I cringe mentally when I realize that she must have heard my singing, too. “I’d trade with you any day.”

“Abby, don’t be silly. Your voice is amazing. Besides, God gives us each a gift of our own. I guess you could say each gift is like a piece of a puzzle. We have to work together to complete the puzzle, and each piece is just as important as any other.”

Nodding, I say, “True… You’re right.” In a low voice, I add, “But I still envy you for your puzzle piece.”

“Abigail…” Mom sighs.

Feeling uncomfortable, as I’ve never talked about my desire to have a better singing voice, I think fast for something I could say to change the subject. I come up with, “Want to hear what I just wrote? Maybe you could help me finish it? I have half of the second verse and the bridge to go.”

“Honey, I’d love to, but you know I can’t write songs – or anything, for that matter.” With a smile in her eyes and a small one on her lips, my mother says, “You know me. If you need any math help, I’m your gal!”

In my best ‘Mom voice’, I say to her, “Now, Mom, you know how I feel about the word ‘can’t’ in my house. You can do all things through who?”

My mom rolls her eyes, but continues to smile. “Through Christ who gives me strength. But Abigail, I’m so tired. I’d like to listen, though, and wouldn’t mind offering advice, if you’d like. And hey, maybe your father, the family’s other music expert, could help you some more tomorrow.” I pout, and she understands instantly. “I know, I know, you don’t like waiting. But patience is the key.”

“Eh, maybe,” I say, shrugging, but I know I’m not really going to wait. I reach for the bag of cookies and pull one out, using my other hand to shield the ground from any falling crumbs. My mouth waters during the time it takes to travel from the bag to my mouth, and when it’s finally in, I struggle to not shove the whole thing in at once.

After I eat two more cookies, Mom tells me, “That’s quite enough,” then, to my horror, closes the bag. “Your music is very beautiful, Abigail, but it’s time for bed. It’s probably 2:30 in the morning now–”

Although I know two minutes won’t make a huge difference, I say, “Um, it’s actually 2:28.”

“Nice try, smarty.” Mom smiles with one corner of her mouth as she shakes her head. “Your creative mind needs to rest some time! Give it the gift of rest and then–”

“But I just have to finish the bridge! Please, Mom! I promise I’ll be done in ten minutes or less.”

“Oh, alright. Just ten minutes, and then you have to get to bed. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, then. Goodnight.” Mom leans forward, gives my forehead a kiss, then gets up. “Love you. And no more nightmares!” I laugh dryly in response, then watch as she exits the room.

Soon, the sugar from the cookies brings me to exhaustion, and before I know it, I’m falling asleep with the guitar on top of me. I realize this, but don’t have enough energy left to get up and put the guitar where it belongs, so I just give in to sleep.