George Wallace sat at the lunch counter of the diner he frequented several times a week, waiting for his sandwich as the final minutes of the noon newscast flickered across the mounted television above the register.
His attention remained fixed on the screen, and a slow smile spread across his face as the report wrapped up.
He’d made the news again, which filled him with quiet satisfaction. He made a mental note to record the evening broadcast and save it. A keepsake. Proof that people were finally paying attention.
He hadn’t stayed in Pennsylvania long enough to draw this kind of notice. North Carolina, though, was different. Here, the story had taken hold.
Moving into the house his late aunt had left him had turned out to be an even better decision than he’d first imagined. Soon, the weather would turn warmer, the beaches would fill with tourists, and the area would be flooded with young women eager to show off in skimpy bathing suits and tiny shorts. The possibilities made his stomach tighten with anticipation.
“Here ya go, George.” The waitress’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she set his lunch in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”
He looked up and offered her a polite smile. “No thanks, Anita. This looks perfect.”
She gave his shoulder a light pat. “Well, enjoy. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.” Once she moved on, George picked up half of the oversized BLT and took a large bite.
He liked Anita. She was older, soft around the middle, her dark hair threaded with silver, and she carried herself with an easy kindness that made people feel welcome. There was something comforting about her. Sometimes he caught himself wishing she’d been his mother.
Instead, he’d gotten Wanda Wallace.
The thought soured his appetite for a moment. Even as a boy, he’d understood he’d been cursed with the wrong mother.
School had been his refuge. He’d gone every day and worked hard enough to keep his grades hovering between A-minuses and B-pluses through all his years in public education. The classroom had offered a few precious hours away from the chaos waiting at home, where there had only been his mother’s drinking binges, screaming fits, and beatings.
Always in that order.
Wanda Wallace was a bleached-blonde disaster who spent most of her life chasing men, alcohol, and excuses. Every weekend, she shoved a handful of loose change into his palm and sent him walking three blocks to the movie theater alone so she could entertain whichever man had agreed to pay for her attention. The state’s welfare checks and food stamps covered the basics, but her drinking habit required extra income.
George had been no more than seven the first time he’d stood at the ticket counter, buying admission with a fistful of quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies while his mother sold herself for far more than the coins she’d tossed his way.
What kind of mother did that?
A worthless one.
When he didn’t have enough money for a movie ticket, he’d wander elsewhere. On Wednesdays, he’d go to the zoo because admission was free, but he still had to sneak in since some people questioned why a young boy was there alone.
He could still remember the expression on one attendant’s face after she’d asked where his mother was.
“Screwing some guy for money.”
The woman had gone pale. Guess she hadn’t expected a seven-year-old to say something like that.
He’d run before she could call the police.
Not that they would have helped. The police never did. When his mother got herself arrested, they handed him over to foster homes that were often worse than her apartment. Then, as soon as Wanda made enough empty promises to the courts, they sent him right back.
Round and round it went. A miserable carousel of neglect, disappointment, and betrayal.
As he grew older, he stopped leaving the apartment when she told him to. Instead, he kept the pittance she gave him and stayed hidden in his bedroom, watching through the small hole he’d drilled through the back of his closet into her room. He watched the parade of men come and go. He watched his mother laugh, flirt, and sell herself night after night.
And with every passing year, his disgust deepened. Hatred had become his closest companion.
His mother never missed a chance to remind him that his father had vanished the moment she’d announced her pregnancy. According to Wanda, George had ruined her life.
The feeling was mutual.
He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing as his thoughts drifted toward the moment everything had finally changed. His life had remained trapped in that endless cycle of misery and resentment. At least, until he turned fifteen.
