Out of the Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

tree-climbing or tenting in bear territory again. Jeanette never promises anything, and Mom eventually gives up. Jeanette is the only person who can get my mother to admit defeat. We all laugh about it. I hope that never changes.
    â€œGot a new recruit?” one of the men asks in a gravelly voice. He smells of cigarettes and stale sweat.
    â€œThis is my niece, Ellie,” says my aunt. “She’s staying with me for a couple of months. I wanted to show her where I spend my Monday mornings.” She looks at me like I’m supposed to do something. I mumble “Hello” and am about to shove my hands in my pockets when she clears her throat.
    It’s a threatening kind of sound, one I’ve heard from teachers at school, but not one that’s ever directed at me. I hunch deeper into my costume, but “looking the part,” as Sarah says, doesn’t make things any easier. I don’t know what Jeanette expects me to do.
    â€œEllie Saunders,” she whispers. “ Where are your manners?”
    I look at her, wide-eyed, hoping she’ll realize how ridiculous she’s being. Does she honestly expect me to shake hands with these people? Mom would be horrified. Much as she believes in politeness, safety always comes first, and who knows if these people ever wash their hands or what they last touched. Yuck.
    My aunt’s stare reaches out, grabs my stomach and twists it hard. I open my mouth, but no words come.
    â€œHey, don’t be so hard on the kid,” says one of the guys.
    â€œYeah, give her a break,” says another. “It’s not like I’m the king of France or something.” He smirks, and the others snicker like he’s made a great joke.
    I sneak a glance at Jeanette and can tell I’m beaten. The only thing worse than shaking hands with these men would be to lose her respect. I stick out my hand and smile as though I’m greeting royalty after all. “Pleased to meet you,” I lie as I shake hand after filthy hand. There’s always soap.
    Inside, the building is not the dark, dingy place I had imagined. It’s new and bright, with high ceilings and lots of windows, and people sit at long plastic tables, talking, drinking coffee and laughing together. A few people have their heads down, sleeping. One guy is talking to himself. In the far corner, a woman is dancing. Someone else is shouting about poison in the coffee. No one pays any attention to her or to the woman barfing into the garbage can in the corner.
    Jeanette tells me this is the lounge, and the soup kitchen and dining hall are up the flight of stairs in the center of the room. As we make our way there, heads turn and people watch us. I don’t know if I should look friendly or tough— show no fear , like they say in self-defense class. Jeanette is walking straight and tall like she always does, smiling and saying hello to people. She knows a lot of them by name. Suddenly I imagine her coming here with Alison, the two of them walking in and stopping to chat along the way. I pull myself taller and follow Jeanette up the stairs.
    The kitchen gleams—metal appliances and white walls. The other three volunteers are all Jeanette’s age or even older. The one woman, Louise, has tanned skin and bright white hair. One guy has an army-style brush cut and is in a wheelchair, and the third volunteer is a man whose wrinkled face reminds me of a turtle. They tell me their names too, but minutes later I’ve forgotten.
    Louise shows me where to wash my hands, and then we start making sandwiches. As I smear margarine on hundreds of slices, I keep sneaking glances at my aunt. She’s smiling like nothing happened out there on the church steps. I can’t even see anger simmering in her eyes. She’s much better at hiding it than my parents, I guess, or maybe I just don’t know her as well. I’m not looking forward to our walk home, although maybe