11 Chapter 11

We got our drinks and found a small table to sit at. Tory looked like a pirate, and my knees hurt when I bent my legs, but we were warm and had our coffee. The old man walked by and placed a bag of cookies on our table, winked at us, and left.

“We’ve never really talked,” Tory said. “Where are you from?”

“Downriver,” I replied, which left a large choice of poor and rich areas both. I don’t know why I didn’t just say I was from the poor area south of Trenton and my parents only thought they were Big Shots.

“So close and you didn’t go back for Thanksgiving?”

“Ah, they had company. What about you?” I hedged.

“Bloomfield Hills. My dad sells cars.”