“What do you want?”

“Potatoes, please, Auntie.”

Stewed potatoes are what the school served everyday in the grey tiled canteen. Stewed as a loose term, the potatoes looked more like indiscernible objects floating in a grey-ish slop. Probably from Tuesday, I think, with a grimace. 

The auntie at the counter holds out her cupped palm as I pass her a five. Auntie holds out her hand everyday as children frantically dig into their wallets, sometimes failing to come up with anything. Their friends would be there to save them, for the lucky ones at least. For the not-so-lucky, they were met with tight lips and a wave of her hand, sending them away to sit down without anything to eat.

Auntie gestures behind the counter, her hands moving sharply. “Move!” 

I lift my tray from the counter before it can be knocked over by her waving hands. At least I had money to buy food at all, unlike some of my tablemates. The ten of them were clustered around a table meant for four, sharing chairs and leaning in close. 

Bread was served along with the sludge, a rock-like cake that hurt your teeth when you bit into it and chewed. I passed it to Rayyan, sitting on the other side of the table, and grinned as he took a bite and pulled a face. Granted, it tasted no worse than any other day, but the texture lingered in your mouth on particular days like today when you had no water to wash it down. My bottle, filled from the collection centre, had been emptied, and the taps in the bathroom had run dry. Blazing sun had forced students to line up for water, but they had disappeared in a few minutes. 

I picked the rotten bits out of my salad, a mixture of lettuce and tomatoes that always seemed just short of fresh. The sun shot all the life out of the leaves, and would gnarl them like skin. As the leaves were usually left in cardboard boxes for hours, the rays had plenty to feast on and had leached all the vitality out of them. 

Of course, the other table in the canteen always had fresher goods,  but I had never gathered the nerve to go and ask for some. At least, not up till now. Rayyan says with a tsk that they are condescending, haughty, that he would rather eat school potatoes every meal for the rest of his life than sit adjacent to them in class. 

Secretly, I thought that I didn’t blame them. Who would eat potato slop for the sake of principle when you had your home cooked food instead. Who would stand for hours, the back of your neck and the top of your nose getting sunburned, to get water, when you could easily fill it up from the taps in your home. 

I looked over at the table and its occupants. They looked like a caricature of magazine models, all perfect posture and ironed clothing, perched like a row of porcelain dolls along a windowsill. They were a painting from a time just gone, when food burst with colour and flavours exploded in your mouth. When water didn’t leave a strangely salty residue in your mouth that you cleaned with your tongue and spat out. I scooped up a bite of my stew. Rayyan opened his mouth, seemed to almost say something, and but closed it, the corners of his lips a little tense. Instead he tore off a bite of the bread with his teeth, and chewed. 

“It’s been two weeks now that their leader started bringing in salads and now the rest of them do too,” he commented absently, ripping off another piece of the bread. I shrugged. Adeline was a little more glitzy, a little more ornate, and she ran her table like a circus ring, bragging that her parents had been given chocolate. Real chocolate, she had said, not the cloying powdered version at the shops. I knew that at the end of the day, they bought food from the canteen stalls just like the rest of us, and I secretly thought it was ironic and futile, pretending they were a cut above when in fact they were standing in the water lines in the blazing sun, sweat dripping down on their embellished jewellery. 

Besides, they were miles away from the Opulent. No, their fathers and mothers were just the managers yelling at the workers in cubicles, The Opulent was something different entirely. The ones who sat in offices too far to even hear the trifling squabbles transpiring a thousand floors below. Sure, Adeline’s table was a row of dolls. Nothing like the real thing though, the people striding downtown in cars and buses, clutching their organically made produce. Then again, maybe I was just bitter. Chocolate did sound marvellous, and I hadn’t had any for nearly five years. Father had bought some for my ninth birthday, and I remembered it being sweet and overwhelming, as I only dared to nibble on a tiny corner for most of the week. 

A girl passed our table, swishing past the corners with a tray, and sitting down at Adeline’s table. Her clothing skirted around the rows of people, and I watched as people turned their heads towards her as she neared, quieted, and then erupted into whispers again as she left their vicinity. She wore a soft, almost aloof smile on her face and levelled her eyes above everyone else’s heads. It was clear that she had tried to blend in, covering her gold bracelets and jewellery with a plain brown coat, and her hair tied at the nape of her neck to conceal the tiny, glittering necklace she wore. 

Even so, I, along with everyone else in the canteen, knew she was an Opulent. Dressed so far beyond the classmates that would push their pettiness around and around their tiny circles. Steps lighter than the blanketing laden air in our town would allow us to tread. Most of all, holding a bar of chocolate and breaking off pieces to give away like it was nothing. The circles of Adeline’s eyes resembled marbles at this point, ogling at the little squares of cocoa like they were made of gold. Her tablemate simply smiled at her and gave her a little more, turning away to talk to another. She held herself higher than the rest of the table, even the canteen. Rows and rows of students sat in a defeated slouch, while her back was ramrod straight, holding herself higher than her height. 

Rayyan followed my gaze. “That’s Charlotte.” 

I hummed, tilting my head to the side and looking over at the opposite table for barely a moment before lowering my head back down to the stew. 

Charlotte was a name I hadn’t heard before. Considering our grade level was less than fifty in total, that was something noteworthy. I craned my neck slightly to look at her again around the people sitting beside me on the bench.

“She’s an Opulent,” Rayyan said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I can tell, I don’t care.”

He laughed softly. 

“Yes you do.”

I stirred my stew around and around. The bits floating in the grey sunk further beneath the surface. I cleared my throat, my mouth feeling dryer than ever, and blinked several times to clear the smudges in my vision. “How’d an Opulent end up here anyway?”

He shrugged. 

Rayyan was right of course. I did, in fact, care, as did everyone else sitting in our vicinity. An Opulent. I had only seen an Opulent on television, scenes of the city and of people who didn’t walk but swept through the streets, carrying their self regard in their cloaks. I had never even met one in person, except for a distant second cousin who had somehow clambered his way up the social status ladder and to the faraway dreamlike city where the Opulents lived. He had cut off all association with Father after that, never visiting again. 

It was only called the City colloquially, as everyone knew it was really a large town, at most. Though the Opulents lived with cars and skyscrapers that stretched above the hazy clouds, it didn’t take long for everyone to notice the same cars and people that kept appearing on screens. At most, it was a large town with a square in the centre, at minimum, a few blocks of glass paned buildings that stopped abruptly once you reached the stoplight. 

And in the centre of it all was a tent, holding the precious few fresh goods that were picked each morning from the glasshouse. The workers in the glasshouse were sworn to secrecy about what went on inside, but every morning, a few trucks loaded up on fresh, glistening fruits and vegetables to lay out at the town square for sale. The people, chittering with laughter, dropped pears and apples like pearls into shopping baskets. They turned right around the road they came from, a few steps away from returning to their luxurious homes, never venturing past the end of the cul-de-sac. 

At least, that was how I imagined it to be. In truth, the Opulents probably lived a more lavish and grandiose life than I ever could imagine. The one thing I knew to be true, though, was that barely anyone entered or left the city. I, along with every person I knew, had never met an Opulent. Not even Adeline and her table ever had, or they’d be letting the whole school know. 

The televisions didn’t show it, of course, but it was a barrier. They liked to say the City was just like the other parts of the island, that it shared the same air, the same water, but it wasn’t and it didn’t. The roadblocks into the city and the acres of land left open made sure of that. Miles of buffer space, populated by nothing but barren land, separated the polluted air of the outside world from the pristine atmosphere of the City. The rivers flowed uninterrupted, flowing clean of the grime and dirt of the outside. The road that stretched on and on made sure the City was sequestered from the rest. It also made sure the people stayed disaffiliated, two groups, one blissfully oblivious to the conditions of the other. 

It was just my luck, along with the other ninety nine percent of the population, that I belonged to the informed group. I picked up my bag and stood up. Lunch was over, and I stood. I had Maths next. Rayyan caught up on the left side of me, but I still had my gaze on Charlotte, quietly sitting at the table while Adeline talked at her. 

My stomach rolled, and I prayed that the little food I had inside wouldn’t abandon me. I continued climbing the stairs. There was no way I was going to make it to the sixth floor, and I left the wave of people behind me to step off into a deserted hallway. 

I needed to sit down, now. The ground was blurring and tilting on its axis, looking too distant and fuzzy. I slumped down next to the wall, and sat on the floor, trying to catch my breath. My stomach felt hollow and unnaturally warm, and I sank down the side of the wall until I was lying flat with only my head propped up. 

Was this how Rayyan felt every day of last year?

Walking to school in the stinging heat with your stomach crawling in your body,  your pockets empty of the money you so dreadfully needed? He used to stagger into class, twenty minutes late and eyes sunken from dehydration. He lived further away from the school than I did, and I pictured him dragging his feet, skin prickling with the stinging heat of the air. 

I hated the all-consuming sun, bruising and marring the bodies that walked beneath, and I Most of all, I hated the Opulent, presumably walking with steps light as feathers on paved streets that didn’t burn the bottom of your shoe. Scorching resentment rose up in the cavity of my chest, and up the back of my throat. Or maybe that was just bile. I struggled to catch my breath and chase the colourful objects swimming in my view. It wasn’t fair in the least. 

Because there are the Opulent, gliding in cities with their heads in the clouds. And then there are the rest, the scavengers, us. Living on scraps. 

One hot flash, one dizzy spell too many.  That was why Father always stood in line for the water, no matter how long it took. Going even a day without water was clearly out of the question, if the consequences were an inability to function.

My vision was blocked by a dark blue skirt, and I followed the pleats all the way up to a pale face, set in the same austere and unflinching smile. 

My mouth was dry and I felt needles when I moved my tongue. A small plastic bottle swung into my view. 

Water. I needed water, All I needed was water. I grabbed the bottle, disregarding the forgiving hands that held it, and put it to my mouth. 

I poured it down my throat without even swallowing, relief washing over my body. 

“I think you fainted,” Charlotte said, face betraying nothing but a polite concern. 

I shook my head rapidly, 

She nodded in permission, and I took a quick, second sip, before she could change her mind. I coughed, choking slightly on the unfamiliar taste. It was cool and clear, smooth down my throat. I wrapped my tongue around my teeth, searching for the usual sediments that lingered, but there was none. All that was left was an ever so slightly sweet residue. Great, I thought. Even her water is abnormal tasting.

The surprise must have shown on my face, for Charlotte smiled haltingly, as if she was unsure whether or not to laugh. 

Her scrutiny softened somewhat, and waved a hand in my direction. 

“Go on.” 

I took several more sips, averting her eyes and going back to staring at her skirt. 

“Thank you so much, Charlotte, but I should be getting back to class, I’m already late, aren’t I-”

She laughed in confusion, and I looked around. The hallway was deserted. Everyone had gone already. I sighed, and used the wall to prop myself up. 

I wasn’t ashamed, honest. Charlotte’s gaze was unfittingly blank, a slate that held no red hot piercings of judgement or pity. She looked at me with something more like curiosity and slight confusion, like watching an injured butterfly on a branch and seeing how close you could draw your finger before it fluttered away. She was crouched down beside me, and straightened her spine before I handed her the bottle. 

I smiled reassuringly at her. I didn’t know if my smile was more to assure myself or her, I had to convince her that I was okay, that I didn’t want to be pitied, to be any form of a burden or-

“Does this, I mean, fainting, happen often?”

I shook my head quickly. My cheeks were beginning to hurt slightly, and I loosened my clenched jaw. 

“No, definitely not, never actually.” Charlotte’s brow smoothened. 

“It’s just that this week I’ve not had enough water, I mean, the taps don’t run dry most days. It’s just that I probably haven’t been hydrated enough, and I probably haven’t had quite enough food either-” I had given my bread to Rayyan, I remembered, and blew a breath out frustratingly. 

She hummed, and opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“I’m really fine on most days, I promise, it's the others who you should really be worried about-”

“I stay on Vineyard, you could come by anytime.”

Charlotte said quietly, almost whispered. I finally raised my eyes to meet hers, which were strangely pale, just a shade away from foggy grey.

“You know, if you ever needed a bit more,” she went on, fidgeting with her hands. “Food, I mean.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice coming out doubting and fainter than I would’ve liked. Charlotte looked away, her face still twisted with confusion. She gave me one last smile, quick as a flash, and walked away quickly, leaving her bottle. 

I exhaled, in disbelief, as I slowly stood and took a deep breath. Then, I drank from Charlotte’s bottle and swallowed another mouthful of the wondrously silky water, picking up my bag and setting off for home. I would explain to Father later why I had missed maths. 

Vineyard, the one nice street, if you could even call it that, in town. Right in the town hall’s backyard, they would’ve lost face if it wasn’t at least an effort to emulate the styles of streets in the City. It was more of a tiny cul-de-sac, just a row of ten or so houses lined with trees. I imagined Charlotte’s home, one among the houses plastered in stark white, four stories tall with tall ceilings and iron gates even higher. 

My street wasn’t paved, freshly painted, or lined with trees like Vineyard. My street was uneven, potholes lining the sides and sometimes even the middle. In any case, it didn’t matter, barely anyone drove a car these days anyway. It had changed so much, from when I was little. I remembered clambering out of buses and into cars, and squeezing myself between tight rows of parked cars to get to my front door. I remembered exhaust blowing out of vehicles, making me cough as a kid, the smoke flooding my lungs while I desperately tried to expel them. But as bad as the coughing became, as much as I complained to my father, neither of us could make the hundreds of automobiles disappear. The best we could do was try to avoid the vast parking lots and the congested streets. The cars were staying. 

Until the air got so choked up with carbon and soot that it collected on the sidewalk, and more children fell ill. The heaps of trash on sidewalks had grown larger than ever, with garbage trucks returning with the same trash, having visited dumps that wouldn’t take their trash. 

Finally, the town leaders, a few listless old men with lung problems themselves, convened and banned cars on our street entirely. Mine and Rayyan’s fathers, as well as a few others, had persuaded them to do so, for their children’s health. The men had relented with not much pushback, but till today a faint smudge of soot-smell still lingers, grudgingly hanging on to the sidewalks and buildings. 

And then, of course, there was the trash heap. Everyone on the street called it The Pile, as if it was some fashionable clothing store, or a record shop that was pleasantly rustic, brimming with warmth and welcome. The outsiders might have been fooled, but the inhabitants of our street and block 491 in particular knew that it was nothing but a literal heap of garbage, festering in the sun and deteriorating even more after the monthly rainstorms. Behind the apartment complex, it rested, ever growing. Flies and rats had made their way into the pile years ago, inhabiting the heap and outnumbering the residents of the apartment above. It grew to swallow the entire waste pail it had humbly started from, and grew like a fire. Every fruit peel, every bottle fed the flames which grew so large it consumed an entire corner of the courtyard. The city no longer drove by to try and alleviate the problem, but instead took no notice, driving by every week without a glance down the street. 

When Rayyan and I were kids we thought it was a game, guessing how long it took before the garbage truck came to haul the pile away. The passersby finished their drink and threw it directly into the pile. When we started doing the same, telling ourselves and each other, what’s one more anyway? My father had reprimanded me harshly, warning us that one day the truck would never come back. 

The Pile had grown and grown, the days stretching before it returned to alleviate the stench. Stretched from five days to a week, from a week to two. From two weeks to a month, after which it didn’t come back because of winter and the falling snow, which had blanketed the whole mound. The Pile covered the vibrantly painted 491 on the side of our building, and encroached into the street, consuming the entire sidewalk and leaving no space for pedestrians.

But now, evidently, it was too late to be taken away. It was December last year when the city said they no longer had room in the central landfill, and January when the garbage truck drivers were laid off, and the trucks sold to a hauling company. Through the winter the pile had frozen, keeping the smell at bay in its small exceeding of capacity.

In the summer, though, it was all over. The winter passed, the last frost leaving in April, and the pile unfroze, a steaming heap of decay that stunk of rotten eggs. 

It’s a comical image when pictured, really. 

I glance towards it now, an ever present leech that had taken the colour out of my block, and replaced it with a grey that lingered, presumably forevermore. 

I drop my bag onto the ground, rolling my shoulders with relief at finally having arrived home. The house was empty, and I swiftly switched on the fans that hung from the ceiling, collapsing into my sofa, still for a moment. 

I grab a fork from the kitchen. One of the flimsy plastic ones that couldn’t cut harder than a loaf of bread. I stick the wrong end into the ground, trying to free up the withered earth, levering it back and forth until I had just a little, a little pile of loosened soil. Soil that could give shelter to the tiny growth of life from the sun, soil that could bring life and food. Picking up my tomato seed, I place it in the little indented ground, and cover the seed with dirt as best as I can. 

Then I stand back up, arm shielding my eyes from the sun, now setting in the horizon. It cast the ground in a tangerine warmth, the burning heat tempering down to a more bearable, affable glow. 

Father tells me about the life he had when he grew up sometimes, when they had a running tap and clear skies, and most of all, a lush garden that they kept in the backyard. He went about his daily tasks cheerfully, without resentment, and always said to make of bad things as good as we could. But I could tell, on the days he fell back a little too far into the past that he hated the way things were now. He hated the water lines, hated the potato stew, hated the way greens were bitter and bread was stale. Instead he dreamed in minute intervals of water splashing on the sidewalk in summer, and dewy salads that were served, all while bearing the heat with an innocuous smile, and opening and closing the windows dutifully depending on the time of day. 

I nodded concurrently whenever he asked me whether I remembered, but truthfully, I had no recollection of the pristine grassy backyard my father still clings onto. He claims that we used to have a garden, a yard and a swing, bordered by verdant dewy grass that shimmered when the sun hit it just so. I usually laughed in his face, gesturing to the few weeds that barely poked out through the cracked dirt. 

“You’re telling me this used to be a lawn?” I always said, smiling in a mollifying way. Father laughs, shaking his head. 

“Mina, I swear, our garden was abundant and plentiful. It once was.” 

The sun had finally set in the sky, the last remnants of the choking heat slipping away from the air.