â t name me. My parents left me outside of a police station when I was about three years old. A police officer found me and took me inside. At first they thought I had run away from a house or a nearby park, but nobody came for me. The police officer felt bad, so he asked me what was the one thing I wanted. I guess I didn â t know much at the time, because I just kept saying â Pickles. â Sometime later a guy came in and asked me my name . I said, â Pickles. â Ever since then, I was just Pickles. â
The salad fork in Miranda â s hand slipped from her fingers then fell to the table with a clatter . â What kind of way is that to name someone? â
â Do you want to know the funny thing about the whole situation? â Pickles asked, and when Miranda remained silent , she continued, â I don â t even like pickles. I think they â re gross. That â s why I think it â s funny I â m named after a food I hate, but I â ve been Pickles for so long I couldn â t imagine answering to anything else, even if I get made fun of for it. â
Once again, Miranda was silent.
â Are you⦠okay? â Pickles asked. â Did I say something wrong? â
â No, Pickles, of course not, â Miranda said quickly, though her eyes darted everywhere. â Is that true? Did your parents just leave you somewhere? â
â Uh-huh, â Pickles said. â It â s okay, though. It happened when I was young . I dream about that day, about feeling lost and confused in a strange place, but besides that, I don â t remember anything. I don â t even remember my real parents â faces or who they were. I figure I â m better off not remembering, though. I mean, they just left me when I was three. Even my old foster parents, the Johnsons, had more sense than that, and they didn â t have much sense at all. â
Miranda reached across the table to grab Pickles by her hands. She didn â t even flinch though they were covered in sauce .
â I am so, so sorry that happened to you, â Miranda said.
â It was a long time ago . I don â t even remember it. I just overheard people talking about it when I was in third grade. The sad part is, I don â t even know my real birthday or what the names of my real parents were, â Pickles said, shrugging. â I â m here now, so I â m just happy about that. A lot of my friends at the home aren â t so lucky. S ometimes kids live there until they turn eighteen and never g e t a family. That place gets so cold and lonely sometimes. â
â Lucky⦠â Miranda said.
â Yep, I am. â
With a grin, Pickles chomped on a bite of pizza . Sauce poured from her mouth and onto her ch in . She giggled , her face heated with embarrassment . Miranda smiled then wiped the sauce with her napkin. For some reason, Pickles couldn â t stop laughing after that. She kept laughing until she felt her sides would explode. Soon Miranda laughed right along with her.
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Chapter Six
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Once again, the bed was too soft and Pickles couldn â t sleep. She struggled out of it with a frown. After glancing at the clock, she went down the stairs, but today she didn â t go outside because she knew the Harrises didn â t like it. She was shocked, though, when she went into the living room and saw she was not alone. David sat at the table eating some granola while reading a news paper. He appeared tired , with half-moons bagg ing underneath his eyes. Pickles gazed at the clock above the stove. It was four-thirty in the morning. Her eyes felt itchy . She couldn â t imagine having to be up th is early every day.
Pickles climbed in the chair next to him, wondering whether she should say something. David didn â t appear to notice her. Instead he kept flipping the pages of his paper until, finally, he raised up his cup a