Lunch Money

By Bonner Litchfield

Follow your passion. Reach for the sky. You hear those words at graduation. And sixteen-year-old Hawk Hanover knows better.

 

Face it: no teenager can solve his parent's problems. Make real money. Take control of his own life. The police call them minors for a reason. Worse still, the IRS calls them dependents.

 

That means Hawk has to stand by and watch his single mom struggle to make ends meet. That means he has to ride out two long years in a new school with a hostile principal.

 

That means his lone acquaintance, Jeanine Tompkins, the queen of weird . . . well, her life sucks worse than his.

 

The time has come for them to stop being minors and dependents. The time has come for them to attack their problems together. By any means necessary.

 

Until the stakes get higher. And their troubles escalate from finishing high school to continuing life.

 

An angsty, enemies-to-friends (and maybe more) young adult thriller, "Lunch Money" portrays the life-altering impact of the relationships we hold closest to us. Guaranteed to be a satisfying and riveting read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Dawg Publishing
• Release date: Dec 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223645832

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Something had to change.

Hawk Hanover sweated on the wooden bench outside the principal's office. In mid-August, one week before the start of school, the air conditioning was turned off. Or maybe nonexistent—this being Western Mass.

He could hear the drone of a male voice through the office door. And Mom's voice rising. She could get tough sometimes. The principal was finding that out.

Thing is, it was just plain easier to get a GED. Game over. One bad life chapter done. Act two: enroll in community college, mop floors somewhere...anything besides this pointless, dead-end holding pattern called high school.

The door opened, and Principal Mullins filled the threshold—big and round, with a pockmarked face. You can come in now, sport.

So Hawk entered this principal's office for the first time, and a blast of cold air hit him in the face. Cold laced with the tang of locker room sweat. The man had himself a window unit. And a loaded trophy case. Which was weird. Didn't most schools display their hardware near the front entrance?

Mom was sitting cross-legged in the navy outfit she wore for job interviews. She still had girl curves and blonde highlights—and a few worry lines to make her look like a mom. Hawk, this is Principal Mullins, she said.

Mullins tiptoed around his desk to his chair, eyes boring into Hawk. I know him; he'll get to know me.

Hawk met his gaze and smiled.

Hot out there. Want a soda?

I'm good.

Excuse me?

Hawk sat down next to Mom. No, thank you...sir.

Mullins shuffled through some papers in a folder. Well, you can thank your mother for being organized. Community service records. Your letter of apology. And the results of your hearing on school board letterhead. That one trips a lot of parents up.

I'll bet it does, Mom muttered.

Here's the thing: you've connected all of the dots, but what does that really mean?

I get a new coloring book?

Funny guy.

Mom gave Hawk's arm a warning grip.

Smarten up, Hanover. Don't even think about a repeat performance of Fall River.

That's ancient history, Mom said.

I hope I'm not wasting my breath saying this, but we don't tolerate drug use here at Penobscot.

I've never used drugs, Hawk said.

Mullins slammed a meaty palm on his desk. Says here you're a walking pharmacy. Half a pound of pot, five grams of cocaine—

Selling, not using. There's a difference,

Oh, I see. You're a predator who takes advantage of other kids' weaknesses.

I screwed up. Sir.

Mom spoke up. Enough. Hawk's taken responsibility for his actions.

Oh yes. He's done all the right things, made all the right noises. But where's the change?

Hawk pretended to search under his chair.

I get the feeling I'm wasting my time trying to help you.

Sorry, sir. I thought I'd lost a contact.

Then he saw Mom's lips pressed into a thin red line, and his satisfaction from needling that pompous ass soured. Because she wanted this for him. It took a lot to get her down and defeated, but he couldn't risk going there again. That sucked beyond belief.

Here. Mullins tossed Hawk a stack of pages stapled together. School handbook. You can get it off the website, but I thought I'd save you the trouble.

How nice, Mom said.

Go to page nine, if you don't mind.

It was a typical rules-consequences page. Suspension had been highlighted; so had Alcohol and Drug Abuse.

Are we done here? Mom's voice had an edge.

I hope so, Ms. Hanover. I really do.

Well, thank you for your time, Mom said.

See the secretary on your way out. She'll get you the paperwork for late enrollment.

Hawk opened the door for Mom and glanced at Mullins. He was checking her out as she turned to leave. She was in his face the moment they got outside. Were you trying to blow it in there?

Hawk looked away. He'd just stared down a man twice his size, but not Mom.

I know, Mom said. He's an ass. So you decided to be a bigger one.

I'm sorry, Mom. I'll try...I'll make this work.

They got in the car, and Hawk reminded himself to act upbeat during the ride home, even if he didn't want into this place. I think Mullins had a thing for you, he said.

Mom groaned. Thanks. I'd like to enjoy lunch. She tried to look stern, then started giggling. Oh, by the way, you're required to read this handbook.

You are kidding. Right?

Actually, no. There's a sheet near the back that we're both supposed to sign. An extra little tidbit the principal neglected to mention.

Hawk read aloud as Mom started the car. For your protection...man, two pages about a new alarm system. Motion-sensored, no less.

Classy, Mom said. Seriously, though. Don't give him anything to complain about.

CHAPTER 2

On his first day of school, Hawk opted for the half-mile walk. The school bus meandered through five miles of neighborhoods and would be infested with junior high brats. As he approached the school grounds, he averted his eyes from the student parking lot. This was supposed to have been the year he got his car. Before things went bad. When Dad's solution to every problem was throwing money at it. Back when Dad had money to throw. Before Dad left.

The teachers gave reading assignments, but no actual homework. Not that it mattered. Before each class, Hawk skimmed the syllabus and thumbed through a textbook that he might as well toss in the trash. He'd already covered most of the material in private school.

Then it got worse. Pouring rain sentenced him to a return trip home on the bus. He picked a vacant seat near the front—to make a quick exit if the rain subsided. The bus smelled of hairspray and diesel fuel. And the churning engine sounded strained from just idling. More students—mostly underclassmen—climbed aboard.

May I sit here, pretty please? The girl had coke-bottle glasses and stringy hair. Hawk slid over.

She immediately stuck her nose in a paperback and kept it there, even when the bus filled with screaming kids. Hawk noted her rigid posture, and that she hadn't turned a page. She gave him a quick glance and looked away. Lovely. An infatuated misfit. He sank down in his seat, trying not to groan out loud.

Then the girl closed her book. You could almost hear her counting to herself, like someone preparing to bungee jump. We've got three classes together, she said.

That's great. Hawk cringed at the harshness in his voice. C'mon. No point in being mean.

She flinched but maintained a steady gaze. "You're thrilled to be here."

Sorry, he said. I'm not in a chatty mood right now.

Really? I'll bet if the sun was shining and a hot girl in a convertible offered you a ride home, you'd talk her ear off.

Wow. Hot girl in convertible. That's original.

The girl smirked. I take it good old Penobscot High doesn't meet your standards?

It's utopia. Especially our charming principal.

You mean Principal Mullins. The emotionally challenged call him Moon Piggy behind his back.

Moon Piggy. That made sense. Mullins' watermelon gut and the divots on his cheeks—craters—were enough, but factor in his round, milky face...

You know, you could take a cue from him. He started out as an assistant coach-slash-history teacher. When they recruited a new head football coach instead of promoting him—

Let me guess. Those who can't teach, teach gym.

Not exactly. He started concentrating on teaching and admin rather than coaching. Eventually, he became Vice Principal.

Right. Those who can't teach gym become cops.

Well, he managed to take over when Principal Skinner retired. That was when my sister was in high school.

And your point?

Well, you could look at high school as a stepping stone, the girl said.

You must be a fan of Moon Piggy's inspirational poetry. Oh, sorry. Does my immaturity offend you?

"No to both questions. Stepping stone is my personal outlook. And unlike you, I'm moving on to bigger and better things."

Deferring life, in other words. Just float above everybody else, all superior, because your passport's got bigger and better written all over it. Only someday. Not today.

Where did you say you moved from?

I didn't. But Fall River.

And how'd you like it there?

Hawk shrugged.

What I thought, the girl said. Another win for you. See a pattern?

Well, she had backbone.

Don't mind me, she said. You'll fit right in at this place. She reopened her book. Can't wait to see your grades after midterms.

Right, Hawk snorted. Your so-called advanced classes are one notch above remedial. Come to think of it, you should run for homecoming queen of this pig sty.

She touched her chest. Ouch. Now I see why you're Mr. Popularity.

Whatever.

Joe Affable, maybe. No. Still too many syllables. Clique-ster. That's it. Designer clothes. That rugged yet quaffed look.

Hawk turned his face to the window.

Too cool to let anyone know he really has a car.

Hawk slid his butt into the girl and dumped her into the aisle. She got up and moved to the seat behind him, then leaned forward and lowered her voice in a mock-whisper. He travels incognito on the school bus with the social dregs; meanwhile, the Clique-ster mobile's parked at his secret hideout.

Hawk stretched his legs across the seat and looked at her. Can't wait to hear what they call you...

My official nickname among the simple-minded is Freakshow.

Her voice was apathetic, but her glasses had fogged over, causing Hawk to experience a twinge of guilt. She was a target if he'd ever seen one. One of those snooty intellectuals...you just wanted to stick a middle finger in her face.

They ignored one another for the rest of the trip as the bus traversed its route. At her stop, the girl stood up and leaned over. Drive safe, Clique-ster.

She gave Hawk a sweet smile from the sidewalk as the bus pulled away.

CHAPTER 3

Jeanine Tompkins' private thoughts, for the last time on this PC.

My life sucks. Which should be an inspiration. Look at novelists—they love depressing vignettes about the human condition. So why am I not writing volumes here?

I met a cute guy on the bus today. And I can't believe I just wrote that.

He's got gorgeous blue eyes and dark hair, and he's the perfect height. You never see anybody like him riding the school bus. He's new. But I can't believe he doesn't have a girlfriend yet. He's that hot.

I have no clue how I got him to talk to me. Very unusual for me to have a conversation with anyone.

Surprise. He's a big A-hole. But leave it to Jeanine. I found a button to antagonize him. To reiterate: he's a jerk. But what about me? I meet a guy that makes my blood bubble, and I alienate him.

The words floated on the screen, daring Jeanine to type on. She closed the document and started a chat session with an online friend, Savannah, in Washington state. Easier to be herself with a 2,500-mile buffer.

I met a HBIB. (Hot but inappropriate boy.)

CSA! Go4IT. (Cool sweet awesome. Go for it.)

IDTA. I PO'D him. (I did that already. I pissed him off.)

AB. STBY. (Ass backwards. Sucks to be you.)

TFTT. (Thanks for the thought.)

9. Parent alert.

Jeanine, come in here. Mom's voice had the snap of parched wood before a forest fire.

Jeanine stopped in the doorway, not that she was any safer there than in the living room.

Mom warmed up with: You don’t have friends; you don’t participate in any extracurricular activities; you just sit in your room on that computer, or on that deck staring at God-knows-what...

Dad cleared his throat in an attempt to assert himself. Jeanine, your mother's upset about a computer program that's been disabled.

Well, they were bound to find out sooner or later. I don't know what you're talking about, Jeanine said.

Her parents were old people in their fifties. Computers to them were like television to a caveman. Mom brandished a box with the green lettering, Watchdog Pro, splashed across it. Her face was purple. I didn't pay good money for a computer program to have it sabotaged by a fresh kid.

But I never go near your PC, Jeanine said. (Mom's computer wasn't the problem anyhow.)

Dad shifted and looked away. Mom, on the other hand, was too far gone for prudence. Your sister installed this on your computer and ours, she said. She uses it with her own children.

I didn't know she installed anything, Jeanine lied. She'd killed Watchdog over a month ago.

Oh, you failed to notice your sister over here working her toenails off when she has a family of her own to attend to. So ungrateful...

When Penobscot High School, in their infinite wisdom, disbanded the student laptop program, Principal Moon Piggy's letter to the parents called it a distraction to the educational process. Many students used their school-issued laptops to exchange answers on tests, download pornography, and hack into local businesses. When the school tightened its network security, a tenth grader not only found a way around it but also posted step-by-step instructions on the Web for others to follow.

Mom had lapped it up. Jeanine can write a paper just fine without internet.

That was during summer break, when Dad was getting a daily dose of torture from having to look at Jeanine's swollen lip. Not that it was his fault. Still, Mom's meltdowns ate at him sometimes. One reason why he was always game to loan Jeanine his car or buy her whatever book she wanted. And why he'd talked Mom into a computer for them and a second one for Jeanine, by the way.

Three weeks later, Stephanie showed up with two new computers: one for Jeanine, and one for her parents. Both PCs (not laptops, of course) had been set up with Norton Antivirus and Microsoft Office. Nice of Stephanie—but Jeanine could have done it blindfolded. Couldn't her sister have delegated the setup duties? And why a personal visit? And Mom...anti-technology to the core, but she and Stephanie spent two hours together in front of the PC in the den.

Warning flags, signposts...Jeanine's computer was crawling, everything taking forever and a day. She checked her PC. Nothing unusual on the surface. She checked some more—running processes, installed programs, registry keys—and discovered Watchdog Pro. Monitoring her computer usage, right down to the keystroke.

Watchdog was tough. Uninstalling it required a password. Jeanine browsed some websites for info. She could boot up in safe mode and remove files and registry entries, but that was a dicey proposition. Plus, she'd have to be on the lookout for future spyware installs by her snooping parents. A spyware detection and removal tool was her best bet. And, as an added bonus, she could claim ignorance: "I installed a spyware tool, just to be safe, and it nuked Watchdog. Hello. It is spyware."

But now, with Mom rabid about it...

Dad tried to intervene. Maybe it's just a setting.

It's not just a setting, Douglas, Mom said. I called Stephanie this afternoon—she's very busy, by the way. The software's been tampered with. There's no question. I sat at Jeanine's computer, and she told me what to look for.

You had no right to do that. The words were out before Jeanine could swallow them. Shut up, Jeanine. This is so not a surprise. But, somehow, hearing Mom verbalize it was just so demeaning. She wanted to send her sister a scathing email. Better yet, an email with a virus attached.

Mom wagged a finger. As long as you're under this roof—

How would you like someone going through your underwear drawer?

Don’t you start with your big-deal analogies.

Ok, bottom line, Jeanine said. I have no idea what happened to the software that you and my loving sister installed behind my back.

You—no, don’t interrupt me, young lady—you have no right to pass judgement on your sister of all people, not when you refuse to come out of that shell of yours.

What do school cliques have to do with software? Jeanine asked.

You—you need to experience the things other kids your age do.

Meaning the internet. Hello. Welcome to last week.

Oooh. You need your mouth mashed. Mom's hand shot to Jeanine's face.

Won't cry...I'll get Dad's car any time I want it after this. But the tears came before Mom's squeezing fingers got sunk in good.

Don't ever back-talk me again, missy.

Crying because the car really made no difference. There was no one to see, nowhere to go but the library. She was too pathetic to need Dad's car anyhow.

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, Hawk felt Mom's hand on his shoulder. It's raining, she told him.

So? I've got an umbrella, he said.

Look out the window, she said. It's pouring.

Hawk heard the rain thundering on the roof. He'd be soaked no matter what he wore.

You've gotta take the bus, Mom said.

Couldn't you drop me off?

It's on the other side of town from work, she said.

Hawk stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door. There'd been a time when Mom would have inquired about new friends he might carpool with. Not anymore. Now her motherly suggestions assumed that he was a loner. And she was right. He was just marking time. He knew it, and she knew it. Only she didn't quite know it the way he knew it. She still kidded herself, calling their current situation a fresh start. But that was crap. They were broke, and this was where she found a job. But what else was she supposed to do? Admit that life had deteriorated over the past three years—and would only get worse?

The hole. That was his name for their new residence—a kitchen and den shoehorned into one tiny living space with a bedroom and bathroom connected. They lived on the top floor of a three-story house with peeling paint. Their street might appear pleasant from the window of a passing airplane—an old neighborhood with giant oaks and large houses. But the view from the sidewalk told the real story: aging houses in disrepair, owners dead or vacated. Some of the younger residents parked their beat-up cars on barren lawns next to cheap above-ground pools.

They'd moved three times since Dad left: from private to public school, from gated community to condo. No more soccer or martial arts. And forget about cable TV or high-speed internet. He was lucky to have his battered laptop that was three years old and obsolete.

In their previous residence, Mom had taken the leaf out of the dining room table to make it fit in the room. That was gone now. They were down to a couch (Hawk's bed), a coffee table, a love seat, and a TV with only three channels. The dresser was shoved into a far corner, but it still invaded the small space.

Thank God for the attic. Nothing up there except old trunks