ANNIE, by Miriam Weiser

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

I was a homeless girl, barely fifteen years old. I had been roaming the streets for who-knows-how long, eating out of better people’s garbage and sleeping wherever I could find space for my 5'1" body. I didn’t know for sure that I was 5'1", but according to the chart in front of the mall, the one with the Loony Toons character hovering over it, I was. I just about reached the height of the chart. That was how I determined my height. As for my age, I guessed. Although I’d been fourteen for who-knows-how long, I didn’t know when my birthday was. No one ever told me.

Oh, maybe when I was one year old, they gave me a big birthday party but, of course, I wouldn’t remember it. That was a long time ago and I was too young. And maybe when I was two and three, I had the same big bash, this time inviting my little friends from the private school which I probably attended. I must have had birthday hats and all that stuff, I’m sure I did. Then again, maybe I didn’t. After all, where were they now, those people who gave me those parties. Wouldn’t they be worried about me? Wouldn’t they try, with all their means, to find me and take me back in and wash me and nurture me and feed me until I was back on my feet again? And I could attend school every day and play with my friends and my computer and go shopping at the mall, like I see all the fifteen-year-olds doing every time I hang out there with my torn clothes. The same clothes I…