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Earning The Gypsy Trust

Turns out I suck at stealin' wallets. So to appease this nasty beast—that's gnawin' at my belly, I need an easy scam. I've neva been dumpsta divin' … and I sure don't wanna start.

I never knew my parents. But besides them bein' gypsies, it's obvious they were crazy. Because before those loonies died, they hired a fancy lawyer to set me up a Trust—

And accordin' to that Trust, while I'm their only child and daughter … the only way I get my money is by spendin' two years homeless … and learnin' to survive—

Like a true gypsy would.

Two distant months ago my life was almost easy. I didn't give a damn when crumbling St. Ignatius locked its dreary church for good. But when that greedy diocese closed our shelter and our kitchen? You probably heard me howlin' a hundred miles away.

I know it's premature but I been workin' on my Memoirs. (While tryin' to find a publisher who'll fork me a fat advance.) And I can't wait to be on Oprah. My figure's halfway decent. Though I do my best ta hide it. (Don't want no male attention yet.) And these days I limit my makeup to a nice thick coat of grease. But I suspect I'll clean up nice.

I only got three months to go...

I'll be eighteen by then.

But till my desperate train arrives, a McDouble would do me good.

Story by:

Jesse Rawlins

2 September 2017