Most people look forward to the weekends, but not me.

Then again, I ain’t like most people. I’m one of those unfortunate souls—a kid without a home, parents, or even a last name.

I used to have a mom and dad, but Mom died of the fever and Dad decided he wasn’t gonna come home after working the factory one day. After he didn’t come home that night I taught myself to strike a match to heat some food on the stove and light candles when it got dark. I don’t remember much about our home except that the floors creaked, and it was cold at night.

One day, when the food was all gone, I remember trudging up the dirt road to our neighbor’s house, Old Lady Gums. I called her that because she didn’t have no teeth. She was nice and fed me a hot meal. Nothing special. Some kind of smashed meat stew with mushed up vegetables. It tasted off, but I remember devouring every bite.

Anywho, by the time I’d finished eating, the police were standing in front of me, asking all kinds of questions about my mom and dad. They weren’t too happy with my answers because next thing I knew I was being dropped off to live with the nuns at the orphanage.

Seven years I’ve been living in this ruler-smacking hell hole. Some girls don’t mind it, but other girls—like me—can’t wait to leave. I’m surrounded by cranky nuns and whiny brats. I ain’t complaining too much. There’s a solid roof over my head and half-decent meals three times a day, but still, there’s got to be something better out there. A life where others are doing gratitude chores for me. I hate scrubbing toilets, washing windows, sweeping stairs, and whatever else the nuns think we should do for what they call gratitude-time. What goop came up with ‘thank you for taking me in and not leaving me on the street’ gratitude chores is beyond me.

For the most part, I can tolerate all that bull. Everyone, young and old, has gotta work for a living, right? What I hate the most about this orphan gig are the what-the-fuck-not-again weekends. Same thing, every weekend.

Sundays ain’t too bad, they’re just boring as hell. Sister Meredith and Sister Trudy, the two nuns who run this place, make us sit through hours and hours of God-babble during morning mass. After lunch, we’re forced to sit and read Bible verses. Then, without a break, we’re marched to the choral room where we sing hymns like angels for two hours with Sister Trudy. I was just kidding about that singing like angels part. But seriously, by the end of the day, I’m dog-tired from boredom.

You’d think that was the worst part of my weekend, but nope. It’s Saturdays that I dread. Fucking visitation day.

You’d think a kid without a mom and dad would be excited to stand tall and look all innocent enough to hustle some new parents. Yeah, well, no one’s buying what I’m selling. I ain’t got the right look that any of those dolled up fancy pants wannabe parents are looking for.

“Her hair is too red. Her hair is too wiry! Doesn’t she own a brush?” are the biggest complaints listed off to me. One woman tried to hide her dismay by covering her mouth with one hand as she told her husband, “Her face is awfully long.”

“People with long faces still have ears that work,” was what I wanted to say, but I held back. No need to get in trouble with the sisters when I can help it.

I’ve gotten good at rolling my eyes and ignoring the hurtful things said to my face, except there was that one time. This one broad pushed me the wrong way and I pushed back. It was about a month ago, when this lady and her husband showed up right before Sister T was about to lock the doors. Visitation day was practically over! Yet, the sisters let this lady and her fancy husband inside. She was fancy too, in her green satin dress trimmed with lace. I swear her shoulder poofs were the poofiest I’d ever seen on an Edwardian dress.

Oh, I read those fashion magazines all right. The gardener sneaks one in every now and then for us girls to browse. It doesn’t cost her more than five cents, so no skin off my back.

Anywho, this pompous Miss look-at-me-I’m-so-rich was making her way down the line. Her blonde hair pinned up with a miniature top hat set on her head, white feathers sticking out the side. The man had a white shirt, black vest, and a long matching dress coat. I couldn’t help but stare at his top hat and cane as he followed his wife around the room.

I’d immediately known this lady and her gent weren’t going to be my new mommy and daddy, but I stood tall and smiled anyway. I could hear her scrutinizing each girl as she moved from girl to girl, down the line. When I snuck a quick glance, I saw her looking through a monocle that hung from a chain around her neck.

Seriously, I thought. She needs a magnifying glass to get an up close and personal detailed inspection. Sheesh, I kind of feel bad for the hubby. This lady screams high maintenance.

When her scowl and beady eyes landed on me, I was ready for the onslaught of insults. There was nothing she could say that I hadn’t already heard, but to my surprise, that richey-rich bitch turned to her husband and said, “No-no, this one won’t do. She’ll produce the most hideous grandchildren.”

Well, I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that and she wasn’t expecting the kick to her shin. That cost me a week in isolation, but it was worth it because I’d be locked up until the following Sunday. Meaning my ass ain’t lining up for any insults come the next visitation day.