1. The Boy Who Almost Lived Under the Stairs

I was so close to getting the room under the stairs, but as luck would have it, the room was given to Barney Lurch. Barney offered to share the four-foot by three-foot living space, but I quickly declined. Doctors say that Barney has a condition called eternal chiggers and lice. He was shaved from head to toe, yet the parasites still thrived on his body. He can keep the room. It wasn’t that much of an upgrade, anyway. My living quarter was the vacuum closet, a slightly smaller space shared by an upright vacuum and a bowling ball bag. I didn’t mind the limited real estate, but I was jealous that Barney got two pillows. That far outweighed my gallon baggie of rice. I asked the headmistress at You Poor Thing! Orphanage and Youth Labor House LLC to cook the long-grain rice so that at least my makeshift pillow could be softer, but they told me hard rice builds character. I had built character ever since I was born.

Ten minutes after I was born, my parents packed up, got their coats, and drove so far away that no one could find them. The labor nurse told me that it was a record for parents leaving their child. Without a family, I was alone in the hospital room, only able to scream and pass waste. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t want someone who screams and fills their pants with digested food in my house either. When the doctor returned, they knew exactly what to do. The nurse lovingly scooped me up in a blanket, carefully placed me in a basket, and tenderly delivered me to the orphanage across the street. With a compassionate sigh of relief that she got to clock out early, I was the property of the world’s number one orphanage franchise.

I should be hurt by betrayal and rejection, but hurt and betrayed kids had all the luxury. I was too busy cleaning chimneys, knitting sweaters, collecting milk, shoveling hay, working conveyor belts, and wiping boots to feel any emotion other than tiredness. The You Poor Thing! Orphanage and Youth Labor LLC Franchise stayed in business all over the twelve districts because of their cheap labor and very liberal understanding of child endangerment. Every night, I would go to bed, lie on my rice bag, and let meager hours of sleep refresh me for another twelve-hour work day. It was my purpose in life. But when I looked at the mildew and rot ceiling every night, I wondered. I yearned to be the unsung hero in a universe that needed a down-on-his-luck teen to bring order and justice. I repeated my mantra: “Hector Popper, you are going to leave this house and make your life into something big.” Eventually, the incapacitating, noxious fumes they pumped into the vents would knock me out, and I was out for the night.    

Today was different. There would be no physical labor. Today was the Yeeting. The national food conglomerate Royal A-Holds hosted the annual YA Murder Hunt. The mega-billion corporation took two orphans from every district and set them loose in an abandoned chocolate factory owned by an eccentric billionaire. Initially, the orphans were tasked with finding a golden ticket, but some communications got crossed, and the kids started killing each other (as youths often do). Royal A-Holds liked the murder idea so much more and officially turned the event into the YA Murder Hunt. The first year was a tragedy, and the townspeople criticized the televised event for its violence and bad morals. Royal A-Holds and their shareholders took this criticism to heart and suggested that the parents’ kids could participate next year. The parents rescinded their complaint, and the YA Murder Hunt continued for another ten years. Royal A-Holds runs a mega mart feeding all twelve districts while selling cheap plastic gadgets and novelty balloons from China. All districts must offer two teen orphans with heartfelt ambitions and dreams to enter the death-trap-laden chocolate factory. When the child was chosen, they would receive an invitation to the games, delivered by a white owl. The white owl is absolutely adorable in his little messenger suit and cap. It really is the highlight of the atrocious games.

Yurga Bentley, my headmistress and elected whipping maid, interviewed me the following morning. I sat in her office, shoeless feet dangling over the side of the chair. She flipped open her book of records and adjusted her spectacles. Her face never failed to look like a white raisin with strategically placed moles. I don’t know why I respected her: she demanded it, or her face made me hungry for raisins.

“Says here you have been punished thoroughly by whip and cane,” she turned her eyes up at me.

“Every day,” I confirmed.

“And you have a crippling cough from working in the mine?”

I made a hoarse cough that sounded like a cat and a carburetor getting into a fight.

“Have you tasted anything sweet or pleasant in the past month?”

I thought for a second. Last week, I swallowed a penny, and I swore it tasted a bit like sweet bread, but to my recollection, nothing pleasant had entered my mouth. I shook my head.

She nodded, “You are definitely in the running for suffering orphan, Hector. Your parents abandoning you ten minutes after birth sets a new record that has been left unchallenged. Dominic Bumbley’s parents waited for him to turn one before leaving him. Sasha Moogin’s parents left her after a week. Your accolade blows them all away.”

She cleared her throat, “But a suffering orphan is only half of the equation. You need to have the wow factor. Today’s modern orphan has an amazing ability that is handy for his life purpose. Do you have an amazing ability?”

I pulled a yo-yo out of my pocket and tried to spin it to the floor, but the string broke. “I almost have the hang of this.”

Yurga steadied the white, puffy wig on her head. Tuesdays were always “dress like a circuit judge” day. “Are you a rebellious teen who stands up to the authoritarian, repressive powers?”

“I can be rebellious,” I said. I eyed a glass of water on Yurga’s desk and slapped it. The glass of water flipped over the table and landed perfectly into a potted plant.

“Thank you, Hector, I keep forgetting to water that plant.”

I was discouraged, “You don’t think they will pick me this year?”

Yurga frowned, showing her one gold tooth, “Sorry, kiddo, Royal A-Holds will be looking for the next Catmist or Perry Plopper from the wizarding school. They don’t take run-of-the-mill orphans with no special qualities.”

I closed my eyes shut. I wanted to be chosen for the YA Murder Hunt since I was 8. Ever since I learned that the event’s winner gets a year’s worth of food, a trophy, and gets to pick any parent to adopt them. It was my only chance to feel love: warm and beautiful love. I read about it in magazines. People who felt loved had a purpose, a hope, and a reason to smile. Love was a currency that made every child rich, the one commodity that couldn’t be bought off the streets by selling used pencils.

“Cheer up, Hector,” Yurga said, “I will use the blue riding crop to punish you tonight. I know you love that one.”

I did feel a little better, but it was not enough. Another year, I wouldn’t be chosen to savagely murder strange kids my age. There would be no blood-curdling screams as I bash a head in with a rock, nor would I have the opportunity to take a spear to the shoulder. The cute little messenger owl would not be at my door.

The rest of the morning, I checked to see if I was a prodigy at anything. I played Solitaire, tried to cast a spell, threw darts at a board, and baked a cake. I was horrible at all of them. After putting out all the small fires I created, I gave up. Lunch was three crackers and room-temperature water, my personal favorite. I knew Yurga felt bad for me, but I still couldn’t muster the appreciation. I lay on my rice bag in the vacuum closet and stared at the water-stain shapes on the ceiling.

“Stupid orphanage keeping me from love and stupid food conglomerate using absolute power and fascism to mismanage wealth and create a dystopia.”

Sylvia the Spider silently traversed down her web, landing over my face, “Hector, you seem sad today. Did the other orphan boys steal your underwear again?”

“No, Sylvia. I wear all of them for safekeeping now.”

Gordie the pig snuck up behind me, “Sorry to see you blue, ol’ Hector. I am sure the YA Murder Hunt owl will be coming today. I can feel it in my bones.”

Henry the horse neighed in approval, “Anyone who helps the local farm animals from being slaughtered by hosting a fun fair is worthy to be chosen.”

I sighed deeply. I would have to explain this to the animals again, “I failed, remember? You were still slaughtered. That’s why you are ghosts.”

My elbow phased through Henry’s vaporous head. He didn’t mind at all.

Sylvia smiled, “But you get an A for effort, and that’s the best an orphan in a dystopian world can hope for.”

I turned away from my animal apparitions, “You guys shouldn’t be my friends. It makes me look less pitiful. I need all the pity I can find.”

Sylvia hummed sympathetically, “If it makes you feel better, you will get to live another year.”

“Living is stupid,” I retorted, “I want the same peril and injustice all the lucky orphans are getting.”

A white feathered bird appeared next to my head, “I have a message for Hector Popper.”

I sneered, “Shut up, stupid ghost barn owl.”

Sylvia descended on my shoulder. “Hector, we don’t have a ghost barn owl.”

I gasped. The adorable white owl was next to me. In his clawed toes, he held a white slip of paper. “I have a message for you, Hector Popper.”