“Ew—your lunch looks disgusting,” Ruby blurted out while unwrapping the organic Applegate turkey sandwich on European rye that Karen had made her earlier that morning.
“Ruby! Don’t be rude,” cried Karen, fearing that, in her quest to preserve both the health of her daughter and that of the planet, she’d inadvertently turned the former into a hideous food snob. Never mind that Karen’s own stomach had rolled over at the sight of Empriss’s neon lunch.
“It’s just ham and cheese,” said Empriss, shrugging.
“Just ignore her,” said Karen to Empriss, trying to make amends. “My daughter is a totally fussy eater.”
“I’m not fussy,” Empriss said proudly.
“Well, good for you,” said Karen, pleased to have finally engaged her.
“The only thing I don’t like is vegetables,” Empriss went on.
“Not even carrots?” asked Karen, feigning surprise.
“I hate carrots. Once, my mom and me went to Super Wings, and she said, ‘If you eat a carrot, I’ll give you a hundred dollars.’”
“I hope you ate it! That’s a pretty good deal.”
“Nah, I felt like puking when I tried to eat that thing. But I should have.”
“Well, I think carrots are crunchy and delicious,” said Karen, attempting to strike a playful tone lest Empriss think she was lecturing her. “Do you like fruit? Fruit is healthy too.”
“Yeah, I like fruit,” said Empriss. “Especially bananas—like Nicki Minaj.” She smiled toothily.
“Bananas are healthy,” said Karen, ignoring the pop-culture reference, which she didn’t understand in any case.
“I like fruit juice too,” declared Empriss.
“Well, that’s not as good for you as fruit,” said Karen.
“Well, you gotta drink something!” said Empriss.
“Mom, do we have to talk about healthy eating all the time?” asked Ruby, rolling her eyes.
“What about water?” asked Karen, ignoring her daughter.
“We don’t have water in our apartment,” said Empriss.
“What?” cried Karen. “But what if you’re thirsty?” Despite a decade working in poverty relief, she never ceased to be shocked by tales of privation in the developed world.
“Then you gotta buy something to drink,” explained Empriss.
“But how do you take a bath or a shower?”
“That water works. But the water in the sink—it don’t come out.”
Now genuinely outraged on Empriss’s family’s behalf, Karen went into problem-solving mode, thinking maybe she could draw on her contacts at the Mission for the Homeless—a sister organization of Hungry Kids—and have them file a complaint against the facility in which Empriss’s family lived. “Do you have a super or someone who oversees the—place you live? Because you know your mom has the right to demand repairs.”
“My stepdad said he’s gonna get it fixed,” said Empriss, shrugging again.
“Oh! Well, that’s good,” said Karen, startled to hear that Empriss was being raised in a two-parent household. She’d assumed that the child would only have a mother. “Your stepdad sounds like a nice guy,” she offered.
“Yeah, he’s pretty nice,” she said. “He’s nicer than my real dad. My mom had to leave him because he hit her. And then he had this friend who’s a cop and he gave my dad a gun. That’s when we moved to the shelter. Also, my uncle got shot at the project, and my mom said we weren’t safe there no more.”
“Wow! Well, that’s good your mom did that,” said Karen, nearly choking on her quinoa, even though the news seemed to make no impression on Ruby. She sat quietly munching on her sandwich, apparently indifferent to the problems of the world—or at least Empriss’s family’s problems.
“Hey, no fair,” she said, lifting her chin so she could see into Karen’s Tupperware, “you didn’t pack me any blueberries.”
On the bus going back to school, the Dutch architect’s redheaded son, Bram, and the black editor/activist’s son, Mumia, began to kick the seat in front of them, causing a fight with the girls who were sitting there (Jayla and Yisabella), which somehow set off a bus-wide, girls-against-boys battle involving spitballs. Chahrazad, the raucous Yemeni child, was of course the leader of the girls’ brigade, while Mumia commanded the boys’ batallion. By the time Karen got home—the kids had returned to the classroom for the last part of the day—she was so exhausted and stressed out by being around twenty-five eight-and nine-year-olds screaming about butts and ear wax that she had to take a nap. When she woke up, she discovered it was nearly time to go back to Betts to pick up Ruby. Readying herself to return, Karen experienced new levels of respect for Miss Tammy.
At two forty-five, she was passing through the gate that led to the schoolyard when she nearly collided with Mia’s mother, Michelle, who was approaching from the other direction. “Oh—hey!” said Karen, keen to establish that she had no hard feelings toward Michelle, just as she hoped Michelle had none toward her. But Michelle glared at her, said nothing, and marched on. Rattled by the rebuff and eager to avoid walking in lockstep with Michelle, Karen stopped walking and pretended to search for something in her bag. She pulled out her phone and discovered a recently arrived text from Clay Phipps. Her heart leaping—where had he even gotten her phone number?—she read:
Hey, dancing queen, made inquiries for u re WC’s move to your kid’s PS, but afraid my hands r tied. Apologies. Dinner Tuesday night? Say yes.
More bad news for the school, Karen thought. But this time her frustration and disappointment were mixed with tingling excitement at having heard from Clay again and, what’s more, at him having asked her out to dinner. On a date. Because wasn’t that what it was? It wasn’t as if they had any Hungry Kids business to discuss. And knowing that he’d made inquiries on her behalf while she wasn’t there—and while she was going about the business of her life, unaware—made her even more excited.