Scarlett Blythe / District One

Scarlett

i'm pretty in scarlet

Mum says I'm a Rapunzel of sorts, but she's always sayin' things like that. She likes to make me think I'm pretty, though I can't fathom why. I'm not - it's painfully obvious in largeness of my forehead, my slightly crooked nose, and round eyes that sit horribly conspicuous upon my face. They're gray eyes. Nothin' special about them, really, but Mum keeps insisting they're the prettiest color she ever saw, tryin' to convince me they're really a pale shade of green. I know you ain't supposed to argue with your Mum, but we always do when it comes to my eyes. And my hair. Oh, we get into plenty of arguments over my hair. My hair's no more special than my eyes, 'cept for the fact that it's so long. Last I checked, it came down to 'bout my waist. Maybe a little lower. Besides that, though, it holds none of the "spectacular" qualities Mum says - it's a simple shade of brown, just plain brown, the color of dirt. My face still holds its youth - natural beauty, Mum calls it. I'm far less optimistic, callin' it a miracle that will leave me soon enough (just like all the others).

Mum says I'm tall for my age and that I'll grow into my height, which is a nice way of sayin' I look like a normal sized eleven year old girl stretched out an extra foot. My limbs look 'bout as skinny as they can get without snapping, although that's mainly from our poverty rather than bein' natural. I don't really make much of an effort to look nice anyway, more often dirt smudged and scraped up than clean. On top of that, we can barely avoid the shack we live in, much less nice clothes, so usually I'm in the same worn out denim shorts and sweatshirt no matter what the season is. And jewelry? Completely out of the question. It doesn't matter much to me, really, but I know it makes Mum feel positively awful to see me go out like that. I don't see why it's really important - pauperism is in my blood. It makes no difference whether I look the part or not.

falling down and caught up in the rain

I have a little sister named Lizzie. She's four years old, two feet tall, and probably my favorite person in the whole world. She's smart, too, always tellin' me I don't smile enough and huggin' my legs to make me feel better. Lizzie was Mum's second mistake. (I was her first, in case you didn't guess.) Mum's always sayin' when we get enough money to stop doin' what we do, we're gonna send her off to school. Not me, though. No, we both know I've lost all hope of ever bein' smart like Lizzie. It's not so much that I'm stupid, 'cause I'm not. I just didn't get the proper education when I needed it, so now I'm stuck bein' what Mum calls "clever". Not smart with words and numbers (though I can get by in those), and certainly no master at strategic thinkin', but I've been on the streets long enough to know how to get out of a sticky situation and be persuasive and use my appearance to my advantage. It's nothin' compared to what Lizzie'll be someday, but it's something.

I'm a master at beggin'. Mum's too old and Lizzie's too young, so I'm always the one who has to go out on the streets and earn pity money from strangers' pockets with my wide eyes and shaking fingers that cling pathetically to a dented tin can. It's not deception, not truly, 'cause we really do need that money, and I really do have a starving Mum and little sister. I mean, sure, I suppose I exaggerate a little, but it's their fault for believin' me. There are some days that even the beggin' doesn't bring in enough, and that's when I have to resort to stealing. I don't like it, of course, but it's quite necessary. I never take anything big - a loaf of bread from the bakery, some apples at the fruit stand, an ancient necklace from the thrift shop that I polish and sell for four times its real value. No one would ever miss them.

It feels like every night while we're washin' our plates in our make-shift sink, Mum's always tryin' to tell me I'm too serious. At that I always shoot her a glare, press the towel into her delicate hands, and go to my cot on the other side of the room without another word. I don't like to blame my Mum (she already feels horrible enough), but when it comes down to it the reason I have to be serious about life is all her fault. Well, I suppose that ain't fair of me to say so - she never asked for arthritis, for swelling knuckles and feeble bones. It just happened. It's helped me in a way, I suppose. I've learned to deal with poverty and stand strong against Fate and her army of hardships. After all, what other choice do I have? Turn my back on them? Do nothing and watch as they starve?

Not likely.

you want to live a lie

As I said earlier, I was Mum's first mistake. She was young and rebellious then, before the inflammation set into her joints and her face hollowed out into an echo of beauty. They made no promises to each other, so she really shouldn't have been surprised when he left her, nineteen and pregnant, to deal with things on her own. Her parents disowned her, and she was left completely alone. And the streets do not treat women who are alone very kindly. I have brief memories of when I was very young, perhaps four or five, when Mum would tuck me under the stiff, itchy blanket on our stained mattress and promising she would be back in the morning. I didn't understand then why she did that, and why the next day we would suddenly have more money than we did before, but I do now. Maybe that's one of the reasons I always feel bad about yellin' at Mum - there are no words to describe the sacrifices she made for me.

I was seven years old when I started to beg. It was easier then - people always pity the half starved little girls. For a little while, things started looking up. Mum stopped going out at night so often, and we were actually able to buy some dishes that matched, and clothes that fit me. I asked Mum a few times why I never went to school, and her response was always that some things were more important than an education. I stopped askin' when I realized the question made her upset. I was nine years old when she met the man of her dreams - tall, handsome, and reasonably wealthy. (But then again, everyone seems rich in the eyes of the poor.)

I was ten when Mum became pregnant again, and the man stopped coming to see us.

Mum had always seemed like somethin' broken tryin' to be strong before, but in those months she positively shattered, and it took a toll on her body, too. Her limbs grew thinner, face more bony, eyes wider and pushed farther back her sockets. It's hard not to relate her arthritis to that time, because that's when it started. It's a miracle Lizzie even survived, much less grew into the bouncin' little girl she is today.

I'd like to say that things have gotten better, but that would be lyin', and I don't lie. If anything, they've only gotten worse - I've lost the youth that earned the pity of others. I don't know why people think that, at the age of fifteen, I have the ability to take care of myself, 'cause I don't. I don't know why they think I'm suddenly better than I was, 'cause I'm not. I don't know why they think I can feed my family properly now, 'cause I can't.

But I sure as hell try.

odair