called the squatty old woman who always sat on the porch of number 321. What’s so good about it? Jessie wanted to scream, her mood as heavy as the backpack hanging from her arm as she trudged toward school. There’s nothing to eat, not even a slice of bread, and Mom’s passed out on the sofa again. But she forced a small smile and replied, “Morning.” “Jessica.” Leaning toward her, Warty beckoned her closer. “Warty” was what the kids in the nabe called the old woman because there were bumps on her face, each with a single thick white hair sticking out like a cat’s whisker. Warty’s hunched body looked kind of lumpy too, under her polyester dress, and it bulged like a bean bag over the edges of her chair. Most of the kids called her names, laughing at her to her face. But Jessie never wanted to hurt anyone, especially not a bent-over old woman who could barely walk. Her mood was so bad she wished she could ignore old Warty, but that would be mean. So, stepping off the sidewalk, she stood at Warty’s gray, unpainted porch railing.
