Sometimes they threw empty bottles at my feet and told me to take them home.
Sometimes they covered their noses when I walked past.
Once, somebody taped a garbage bag to my locker with a handwritten invitation to move inside.
I removed it before first period.
I never told my mother.
She already had enough to carry.
Her name was Rhonda Walker, and she spent six days a week pushing a dented shopping cart through the neighborhoods of Bakersfield, searching dumpsters, collecting recyclables, and exchanging bottles and cans for whatever money they would bring.
In summer, the heat made the asphalt shimmer.
In winter, rain soaked through her shoes.
She came home with swollen fingers, aching knees, and the same gentle smile.
“Did you learn something wonderful today, baby?”
I always said yes.
I never told her that sometimes the only thing I learned was how cruel people could be.
