The Degenerates

THE NOVEL

They’re 17 years old and live in Cles, a peaceful little town in California. They all go to (attend) the same private, expensive high school. These things may seem like the only elements that these like many other teenagers have in common. But there is more. These(few) teens are the most deviant, rebellious, and undisciplined of the entire school. They are all at risk of being expelled and forced to complete their education in an alternative setting at night due to their unwillingness to conform.

But at night within the walls of Kennedy High School something happens and the place that the kids have always looked at as familiar and safe becomes a nightmare.

Trapped and tortured the teens find a way out, but…

This work is an unrestrained tale that produces a teeter-totter of dramatic scenes that leaves one with bated breath. And a surprise ending that completely reverses the situation. It is a text that illustrates what the new generation is like and that allegorically reveals how society tends to marginalize teens by filling them with excessive wealth. In turn removing from them the bare essentials (basics) and also the ability to tell good from evil.

THE AUTHOR

Chiara Zaccardi, class of 1986, was born and lives in Parma (Italy). She published her horror novel The Degenerates and the story Occasion in her first anthology of Limited secure Waters. Her next anthology We all work to scrape by that contained the story Parma, the third hour was released by Arpanet.

Another story We are the toys placed fifth among the finalists of the Premio Grado Giallo institute from the district of Grado in collaboration with Giallo Mondadori (2012).

THE CHOISE

WEDNESDAY MARCH 13.

HIGHWAY 22, 15 MILES FROM CLES, CALIFORNIA.

"No agreements, no consents, no peace, this time we go all the way"

Adolph Hitler

The shiny new van that was bought with forged papers travels unchecked down the highway leading out of town and out of state. The radio, one of the few options included in the sale, is turned down and plays a poor rendition of Tainted Love. He likes the lyrics. The words talk about sickness, putrefaction, and redemption.

The sycophantic voice of the DJ interrupts the song and he lets loose a wave of complaints that transform into an itchy, tingling feeling on his knuckles. He feels it and lets it go. He doesn’t even try to change the channel. He knows he doesn’t have to. In a short time he will be able to unleash his most hidden emotions, completely and for a long period of time. He wishes to sense the yearning and the tension throughout his entire body, making his freedom complete and unimpeded. He goes to turn off the radio to focus on himself, when he hears a commercial that directs his attention back to the broadcast:

"Are you tired of rockin’ parties? Do you want to experience the most extreme parts of your town? Then turn to the Rebellioncity.com site and share your best amateur videos with us! Because the life must to be strong!"

In the background a tune and voice emphasize that there is something better than the usual monotony that people are used to.

Something for those who are out of their minds.

The last phrase being screeched over a rock chorus prepares you for the next theme.

Rebellion.

It seems like an enticing thought. It’s just what he needs. It’s the perfect time to take a break from this trip that has threatened to become complicated and exhausting.

He stops at the first Wi-Fi café, grabs a cup of coffee and plops down in front of a computer.

He goes to the home page of the site in question and looks at the latest videos, without listening.

He understands immediately that it’s not what he is looking for: it’s about these morons who are pulling a skateboarder and young topless sluts on the beach.

He expected more.

And he finds it.

At the bottom of the menu a flashing link comes up in one word. Aggressive. He clicks on it and opens a new window. Theses videos contain diverse settings, but the shows definitely do not resemble each other.

He watches all of them. All of these videos were shot on somebody’s cellphone with really shoddy technical quality. All shot with an excellent theme in mind.

He finally selects a few of them.

Video number 38, posted at 8:25 a.m.

This dress is lame, I have to find one exactly like yours a girl’s voice. A shot of a girl from below in front of a bathroom mirror.

You’ll never find this one, it was the last one in the store grunting, excited, voices are yelling out side the door.

What the hell was that?!

The camera sways back and forth to the rhythm of hurried footsteps, the bathroom door opens to reveal the hallway of a school.

A guy’s voice is heard yelling: I’m going to take what I deserve!

The camera focuses and pans in to the end of the hall. A tall kid with a tattoo on his wrist punches a pudgy, red-faced kid right in the mouth.

Son of a ...!

The fat kid jumps on the tall kid and they begin to fight. A third kid gets there in time to cool things down. Everything is over in a couple of minutes.

A girl’s voice is heard saying, Oh the same old shit, fighting, Stupid jerks, lets blow… they’re not worth shooting.

He scrolls down. He plays the last seconds of the video. Beat up and put down, the tall kid gets up again. He moves quickly but he’s woozy.

Stop. Go back. Go forward.

Yes.

The tall kid gets up and steals the pudgy kid’s wallet.

It happens quickly.

He lets go with a smile.

Video number 49, posted at 5:23 p.m.

The demonstration moves at a snail’s pace, the flags are waving and the banners push forward.

No to globalization, no to homogenization yells the crowd. Against fast food, against consumerism, against oppression, the voices of the opposition wish to be heard!

A male voice says: Put that stuff away, if they recognize our faces they’ll lock us up.

It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? says one of the girls. I feel like we can change everything! she says blowing a kiss.

The crowd changes direction and continues to sing. They are in an exclusive district full of white upscale mansions.

Oh sure, something could definitely change is heard as an arm throwing something comes into the picture.

CRASH.

A window in the distance is shattered.

Wow! You’re the hero of this revolution! a female voice laughs as the telephone spins and rings.

And, thanks to one sole erroneous motion, the voice of the male on the video is metamorphosed into a recognizable face.

Video number 47, posted at 9:18 a.m.

What a loser!

A little giggle. Mumbling in the background.

The shot focuses on two rows of desks. In front of the room a teacher with a stern look waves a sheet of paper right under the nose of a little girl in tears.

I couldn’t prepare myself to complete… the girl attempting to justify her actions. You see my uncle died and….

Huh retorts the female voice and another unsuccessfully tries to cover up a deplorable snicker.

… And next month who is going to die? the teacher responds condescendingly.

I WISH YOU WOULD the little girl screams frenziedly. Conversation is restored in the classroom as the camera swings around.

The little girl is crying, she becomes hysterical and impervious to the teacher’s reprimands.

You don’t understand anything, nothing! the girl yells frenetically. She jumps up and runs toward the door.

That is no where near her best work says the person filming.

More laughter.

Someone applauds.

Video number 62, posted at 9:411 p.m.

Holy shit, you are really losin’ it.

A cellphone cruises over a dense blown glass door, and lands in a tiny bathroom in the mediocre home.

Get out of my face a girl with a towel on her head blurts out.

Come on, let’s see how it looks!

A hand appears in the picture and with a lightning quick gesture grabs the towel and lets it fall to the floor.

OMG, purple! Now I know it’s time to call the loony bin to come and get you.

You wanna cool it? she says as she parts her hair to one side and begins to comb it.

And what is that? Is it new.

Her naked shoulder exposes a tattoo in Black ink that reads R.I.P.

"Why rest in peace?"

It’s a greeting to all those who are left behind, who only watch and need to mind their own business!

The girl grabs the towel and begins to snap it at the camera and the photographer.

So just leave me alone before I knock you on your ass!

Hey, cool, I’m outta here!

The camera pans in on the girl’s profile.

Three tattoos and two piercing are observable.

Video number 95, posted at 7:55 a.m.

Sam drive slow, or else we can’t see a damn thing…

Background noise, a car cranks up.

Okay, I’m on my way… Good morning from Sam and Nick and welcome to the umpteenth exciting day of school. I thank professor Harris to have convinced us to show the world our early morning creativity.

Expletives follow.

Here behind us you can admire the oceanfront that like always we won’t be enjoying, and then we enter the courtyard of the school from this side where we can see all these long faces - so excited like us that there are still months to go to summer vacation - cars bumping into each other vying for the last parking spots… By now they are all taken and we can all go home, but before that you need to see our football field… Sam turns, I said our football field.

A car turns at the corner of the building.

… Or let’s just say the only thing that is acceptable about our scholastic furnishings… Oh I’m mistaken! Here is a new work of art!

The art in question is pushed out of an open window, then quickly shoved to the left: Last night our artist must have really been pissed off. We’re all with you, pal.

An immense mural covers half of the five stories of the building.

The head and shoulders of a hooded skull stands out in front of the football field, and emerging from a profile of a desolate misty valley, is a smile and disturbing wink.

The author’s signature, a bright yellow that contrasts with the darkness of the subject, is not a symbol or a name: it is an entire sentence. A phrase that cries out.

Video number 77, posted at 3:02 a.m.

A close up of pimply male face. A huge pug nose in the middle of the lens.

Look at that what a show, and you have to pay me for this! he screams with a typical slur of a drunk to drown out the music that is turned all the way up.

A red curtain is pulled away that reveals a small secluded room. Four girls on a couch are passing a bottle of champagne back and forth. They are all wearing bras.

Should we take them off? they ask the only very lucky sitting with them.

Get undressed and order another round!

He spills some wine right on one of the girls and while he is hugging another one, he lowers his head and licks her breasts. He rubs another one between her legs whose jeans are half off.

Wow, this is perfect stuff for jackin off… pimply face doesn’t even have time to finish the sentence when he is beat down by two thugs. These brutes, both about 6’4’ make the girls get dressed and pull the guy up on his feet.

Get out of here! This is a strip tease joint says one of the brutes as he drags the group toward the exit as they complain.

Yo, this asshole is totally wasted the second gorilla says pointing to the kid who is unzipped.

We’re going to have to call an ambulance.

Are you nuts? Throw him out on the sidewalk and that’s it.

Video number 80, posted at 9:07 a.m.

Aroused voices. Panning in on a music classroom. Female screams, boys getting out of their desks clapping, the teacher yelling from her desk.

A girl throws a Roland keyboard right at another student’s face. The student falls down, gets back up and grabs the other by her hair. Insults on both sides. Disoriented images, and whistles of approval. The girls slap and bite each other while the teacher tries to separate them.

A guy with glasses opens the classroom door, he surveys the general mess that has occurred, walks around the disturbance towards the camera.

What are they into this time? he asks.

They’re beating the shit out of each other because one did the other’s guy, or something like that answers the owner of the camera.

Cool, as long as they don’t mark me tardy is the closing comment.

Satisfied with his distraction, he disconnects and finishes his coffee.

He is happy with what he saw.

There is nothing to add.

He throws the cup in the trash and leaves the rest stop.

If before he was convinced, he is even more convinced now. He’s aroused.

He knows exactly what to do.

Let the game begin he thinks.

POLLYANNA

Sunday, march 10

Polly is on the verge of failing. She’s trying to do two things at once and neither one is going well. She is sitting on her windowsill with her face turned towards the afternoon light. She wants to get a tan. But tanning is boring, and she is not capable of sitting and cooking herself lying on a cot. Last time she tried it she fell asleep, and when Lola the maid woke her up her pale skin had burned like a shishkebob on a barbecue.

She also wants to paint, but where she is coming from it’s not easy. She rolls up her jeans a bit higher on her white thighs, and the cloth slips off her legs and starts to fall two stories below. Polly grabs the end and puts it back on her knees.

Her Chrysler shines in front of the house gate. She’s almost completed the drawing, and she got a horrible stiff neck because she’s been looking at it sideways from above. She still is not satisfied with her work.

She loves her car a lot; originally, a year ago when her mother bought it for her it was a pale creamy white color and she instead of driving it parked it in the garage and worked on it day and night. She reproduced and mixed various famous works, culminating everything with the expression art on the street on the side. It was such a masterpiece that everyone knows it’s her when she arrives at school.

She wants to create a unique background setting to her creation, but all that comes to mind are uninteresting scenes of Route 66 or other spatial episodes.

Sweating in the sun doesn’t help her concentrate. She needs a break. She jumps down off the bay window, lands on the bed and leaves the drawing to dry on the floor. She starts playing Mendelssohn’s Fingal’s Cave on her stereo and sits at her desk eyeing her latest purchase with interest.

Extraordinarily premature, Picasso debuted at sixteen years old, after studying for a short period at the academy of Barcelona and Madrid, with vigorously realistic works... Polly continues to read from a book that is still half wrapped up in cellophane. There, I knew it! Compared to him I’m already a year behind, and I have never been to Europe!

She digs up a dart from the pile of papers and pencils on her desk: Damn! she exclaims disappointed, throwing it towards the target on the door of the room right as her mom opens it.

Woah! Mrs. Patter ducks and the dart grazed across her hair, missing the target and ending up in the hallway in back of her.

Sorry, Mom snorts Polly as she refocuses on her book.

Pollyanna, what are you doing?

Studying.

Really, honey? The school sent a letter saying that your grades have gone down this last trimester the mom remains at the door raising the envelope in her hand that contains the note with the unwelcoming words from school.

To tell you the truth I’m trying to improve.

Some of your teachers have complained that you don’t even have the necessary materials. How is that possible? I gave you money multiple times to buy them.

Sometimes I just forget them at home. That’s all the girl gripes as she rips the chapter from the cover page that has the last shreds of cellophane that she hides in her hand.

Mrs. Patter moves closer to her daughter’s desk and notices the picture of Green Still Life.

You don’t have to bring your art grades up, you know that. Why don’t you dedicate more time to geography, math or biology?

Okay, mom Polly looks at her mom with fire in eyes Let’s start with geography. Why don’t you let me go to London so I can get a high grade on the next assignment on England?

Pollyanna, we already talked about this and I’m begging you to not speak of it anymore: first you have to finish high school. These study trips would make you miss too many days of school, I think it’s better to postpone the trip until after you graduate.

I don’t give a damn about the school, school is for people who don’t know what they want in life, not me, I know what I want. I want to paint. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Next month in London a very important interactive seminar on contemporary abstract painting is taking place.

Honey, do you know how many thousands of people have or have had the same ambitions? You read about famous people like Picasso, Dalí or Monet, and it seems easy. But it’s not that way at all, you could be let down, and not achieve your goals. Then how would you live? You have to leave other pathways open so that you are able to do something else if your dreams are not fulfilled.

Thanks a lot for the encouraging words.

I’m just urging you to be more responsible and levelheaded.

Oh, so you were responsible and levelheaded when you were seventeen and ran away from home to go live with a producer who promised you an acting job?

I was poor, Pollyanna, and I however didn’t have another choice. I was reckless and I was lucky. In my case it was a whim that had a happy ending, but I would never allow my daughter to do the same thing. There are other means that are less dangerous and will produce more positive results.

The truth is that you are afraid that I’ll end up like dad! Polly says losing it, irritated from the preaching.

Now don’t be rude, Pollyanna, think positive: with more education you will truly be able to appreciate the beauty of the upcoming trips.

Even if you think positive: when I run away from home because I’m so tired of your excuses you can be proud of the fact that I followed in your footsteps.

You need to buy your school supplies, Pollyanna, of you won’t get another cent of what’s left Mrs. Patter concludes as glances meaningfully at the book by Picasso.

She goes out of the room closing the door as Polly throws a paintbrush at her. Polly slides her finger over the picture of Guernica, then slams the book shut.

In these biographies, no one ever talks about the relationship between the artists and their relatives… she thinks. Yet still it would be interesting to know if the Greats also had the same problems as we normal mortals.

Speaking as Picasso’s mom: Pauly let’s be real, you’ll never become anyone using those few colors…

Picasso says: Quiet mom I’m calling this my pink period…

Mom: But Pauly sweetheart, don’t you think that pink is too much of a feminine color? You wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression… Where did you put the money that I gave you to buy the palette?

I spent it on crack to help me with my inspiration.

How about this confusing drawing on this cloth, what does it symbolize my sweet baby?

Officially the bombing of Guernica, but I’m doing all I can from SLITTING your throat mommy dearest.

No way Polly reflects after a minute. I’m sure that Pauly’s mom was more understanding than mine… And he was more elegant than me.

All this doesn’t change anything in the present: she can’t take one more year at that boring Kennedy High School. And given that she doesn’t know any big wig that is willing to finance her artistic tour, she’s only left with one choice: Sell.

She rolls down her pants to their regular length just under her knee, slips on a pair of Nike’s, her dad’s baseball cap and grabs a large yellow poster out of the closet.

She creeps down the stairs silently to avoid any further words of contention, and slips away.

There’s another thing she likes about her car: it’s a convertible so that makes it easy to throw the poster in the backseat without being noticed.

She sets up on a street called Volgar, due to the ridiculous parade of rich people in front of the most expensive stores in the city. She thinks this is the best place to conduct her business. This was a no-brainer, Cles is a small coastal town in southern California with few options.

She stays out of Artists’ Row because of the fierce competition and few customers: during the day The Row is a destination frequented by skate boarders, roller bladers and surfers. That is to say young people who love to race, crazed sun tanners, because it leads directly to the beach. It’s cool to spend time in your car listening to Good Charlotte, not stopping to adjust boxes and palettes that the reckless speeders can easily knock over. Or screw it. The only performers who succeed there are break dancers and street jugglers because they put on a short act and there’re gone; whomever wishes to exhibit their work has to be able to spend hours in the sun and allow their egos to be ignored in favor of a beverage cart. At night the caricaturists and the portraitists are able to scrounge a few bucks from the passing tourists, but that’s not the way she prefers to work; she’s too shy to gaze at someone’s face for a half an hour while a small group of curious onlookers stop and look over her shoulder and judge her work. Moreover, she finds that both caricatures and portraits represent the banality of people, where she prefers to catch her subjects in surprising, grotesque, and at times crazy poses.

She also stays away from Austin Park on Roosevelt Street: it’s peaceful and clean and on Sundays it is the ideal place for family picnics or for students who want to pursue their studies outdoors, but during the week it’s full of blue collar workers who are always in a hurry and the elderly with their dogs who are not all interested in hard up teens.

She has no use for bus and subway stations: they are too dirty and there are too many sketchy characters. These places are like an industrial zone: a ton of people pass through daily but no one stops long enough because they want to avoid the possibility of a parasitic tick attaching itself to them.

She turns on Gardenia Avenue and decides to go to the mall: the name of the mall is Five Stars, a name that brings to mind a luxurious hotel. However this is a facility with about one hundred and twenty-five stores, fourteen movie theaters on three floors open 24/7. It is quite modern with mirrors, huge windows, fountains, and it is also the most popular haunt in the surrounding area for all ages.

Polly finds a parking spot about two miles from the entrance in the middle of a stretch of cars that are shining under the sun waiting for their owners to complete their shopping. There are still others who are looking for a free spot. There is ample space right in front of the glass doors of the mall, where people stop to smoke, to pass out flyers, or just to chat. Polly chooses to set up her window display in front of a colorful flowerbed. She arranges her drawings on a towel on the ground on a large white canvass that she uses at home to avoid making a mess on the floor. Then she sits on the wall that surrounds the flowerbed and waits for potential customers. She doesn’t price her goods in the hope that someone who is attracted by her work will ask for information on her art.

She tries to recall how others on Artist’s Row make the time go by. Do they chat with everyone who passes by? No, she doesn’t want to be considered a nuisance. Do they pass the time reading? She didn’t bring anything to read, not even the book by Picasso that would have provided her with a professional and intellectual appearance. Damn. Do they smoke? Something she is not used to doing. Other than observing the people walk by her and pretending not to see them, what else can she do?

She looks at her watch: only five minutes have passed.

Nuts, I’m bored to tears… I wonder how Picasso would have handled these kinds of empty minutes? she thinks as she bites her nails. He probably would be thinking about his next masterpieces… she lifts her head. Maybe if I start drawing something I’ll attract more attention.

She removes her design pad and a pencil from the bottom of her portfolio. Nothing trivial like a portrait of wretched old people holding a discount coupon for a bottle of mineral water. An artist doesn’t just look at a subject but they also need to see into the internal soul, therefore Polly always focuses on the specific characteristics: the hem of a sweater, a scarf covered neck, eyes covered by the lens of sunglasses, shoes worn out by the asphalt on the sidewalk, coins that fell on the ground, a fiery red mouth facing downward, skimpy shorts, a pierced bellybutton… By dissecting her mall clients she removes a part of their body without being noticed and she encloses it on paper, representing everything at the same time without a logical explanation. She follows a spiral tendency that shows those unique aspects that are detached like a foamy trail whose size is reduced little by little as the circle narrows toward the center of the paper.

Excuse me, darling!

Polly is startled at hearing this and the pencil slides out of her hand falling to the floor making a faint sound three pins dropping one at a time. The girl lifts her head up and sees woman dressed in a gaudy salmon colored pantsuit who is smiling impatiently with her lipstick stained teeth.

Good morning!

Polly puts her portfolio down and jumps to her feet. A customer. Her first customer.

How can I help you?

I see you have some really nice things here, darling the woman squeaks as she glances on the ground. You don’t happen to have some fruit, do you?

"Some what?"

Yes, you know a portrait of fruit in a basket… You know that’s just what my sister likes but they cost you an arm and a leg in stores!

Do you mean dead nature?

Yes, well done honey, pears and cherries if you have them… She just loves pears…

I have something like that… she moves to the side and picks up a small portrait depicting a see through bowl on a table full of rotten cut up fruit that she ironically calls Fruit salad. This vividly shows her contempt for portraits of dead nature.

The woman moves near the fruit portrait and starts to insoect it: I don’t see any pears here. Don’t you have something with pears?

Well no, but I have many other interesting subj…

Polly stops and stares at the empty space in front of her. Something with pears? SOMETHING WITH PEARS?! Are you kidding?

She has to make a note and write to the governor requesting a lowering of standards to enter an insane asylum.

Hey Patter! a sharp voice stops her from gasping.

She regains control of her outrage.

What are you doin’ with all this stuff? Have you decided to emigrate?

A tall sort of a girl with enormous protruding breasts squeezed into a small top with a pair of short shorts stops in front of her. Her name is Melissa Boots. The Pamela Anderson of the school. The type that all the boys drool over. The type whose brain is inversely proportioned to a windowsill.

Polly stops herself from screaming at Mrs. Salmon suit, who if she still wants two gigantic pears; well here they are! Polly hears a giggle and notices that Barbara Leroy, better known as Big Mouth, is with Boots.

Hi… Polly says hoping that they will get out her face and leave her alone.

You want to come shopping with us? Melissa asks Polly, in a very surprising kind way.

No, I can’t. Thanks though, but I have things to do right now… answers Polly who is stunned by the invitation. These two usually don’t let anyone near their exclusive little group. Well maybe it’s a group of lesbos.

Oh, too bad! Melissa bursts out in laughter. You really could use a decent outfit! We thought you were a homeless person!

Polly stood there dumbfounded and stared, without uttering a sound.

Yo, sweetheart, chill! Barbara intervenes. You couldn’t sell that crap even if you were a superbitch!

Hey maybe you could sell something else! Melissa then grabs her friend’s arm and the two go enter the mall laughing malevolently.

Polly falls against the wall of the flowerbed almost sitting on her open portfolio. She asks herself why such hateful people even exist in this world. She asks herself why Boots’ boobs don’t tip her forward so that she would fall and break her nose.

She finishes a drawing of a broken nose and calls it Chaos at the mall. She would like to call it Chaos and shitheads at the mall, but that isn’t worthy of a professional with modicum of education. She will never go down to a certain raunchy level.

She starts to calculate how much time she can stay there before Melissa and Barbara finish their round of shopping for porno clothes and come back outside.

She feels dirty and sweaty and she hasn’t made a dime.

To hell with Picasso and all the biographies of famous artists she thinks. Why doesn’t anyone give a specific timeline for a period of misunderstanding? How much humiliation do you have to experience before you get rich and famous enough to make those people who made you feel like shit die of envy?

Van Gogh comes to mind. He died deranged and poor. Fuck.

Is this what I can expect in my future? A depressing life and an inevitable death? she asks herself.

Then she cheers herself up thinking: No. Before that happens I’ll surely kill Boots.

She closes her eyes and yawns, a bit groggy from the afternoon mugginess. It’s still March, and if things continue at this pace the city will unravel come June.

She feels a hand on her shoulder: Miss? she hears a male voice.

Polly turns around. A man wearing a black and white uniform frowns at her.

Do you have a license to be here? inquires the mall guard.

Uhm… I think so Polly responds with a confused stutter.

Then please let me see your permission from the mall director.

Excuse me?

To show your work here at the Five Star you have to have been given permission by Mr. Strumbord, the mall director.

OHH, yeah sure! Polly answers with a fake certainty Yeah, I requested permission but Mr. Trumbett was busy and he said he would give it to me next time! He was perfectly OK with me being here, but you know how managers are-always superbusy…

I get it answers the guard.

Thank you, you’re really…

Until you get permission you can’t display any of your work. Please gather your things and go present them elsewhere.

Huh I… I… thought…

Sorry, these are the rules. If you don’t move on I’m going to have to call the police.

Thanks a bunch. You’re willingness to help is really touching irritated, Polly gathers her portfolio, drawings and her paintings and her canvasses as the guard watches and she feels exactly how Melissa Boots had predicted; a poor wretch banished from places frequented by the upper classes.

Bad luck is enjoying its quest to follow her.

As she tries to preserve a scrap of self-respect, she puts all her things in the large book bag that she brought from home. She zips the bag up and leaves the mall without saying a word.

She returns to her car exits the parking area and thinks about what to do.

She is no longer in the mood to try to sell her work elsewhere, and she didn’t learn a heck of a lot about business during her short stay at the Five Star Mall with the exception of something she already realized. People have no reason to be kind to you if you don’t have what they want; for example a painting of pears or the written permission from Mr. Trombett.

She can’t go shopping without money and she didn’t even bring her bathing suit to go to the beach.

She drives right by Kennedy, her