It felt like home, even though his parents didn’t give him a home, only a place to stay. He was never abused in any way that Child Protective Services could have acted on—his father rarely hit him, and his mother never did. They didn’t even raise their voices to him very often. But they didn’t do anything else with him either. They never talked with him or asked him about what he was doing, his friends, or the books he was reading. All they had, they gave to his sister. The Kid had four shirts, two sweaters, one coat, and one pair of pants. Celeste had a wardrobe. The Kid’s room contained a bed, a dresser, and nothing else, not even a radio. Celeste had a TV and a stereo system that their parents had bought for her on credit. There were many days when the Kid went to school without a cent in his pocket, but Celeste never had to. The Kid didn’t mind at first. When he was very young, he didn’t know he was poor. He just assumed it was normal. As he got older, he began to realize that Celeste had more than he did, and that kids who didn’t live in the barrio had more than his entire family.
