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She took the chocolate box from him. Golden ballet danc- ers were engraved into the casing, and a beautiful melody played when she twisted the lever.
It was the nicest thing she had ever been given.
The model agent handed her mother a small stack of hun- dred-dollar bills and a Ziploc bag of white powder. She gave him two plastic takeout bags. Inside were Ava’s birth certificate, three outfits, and a toothbrush. Those were her mother’s parting gifts.
“I’m not going.” Ava stomped. “You can’t sell me. I’m a person.”
“I gave you life. The least you can do is get me some money,” the mother said.
Ava dropped to the ground and curled up into herself. She put her head to her knees, and her lower lip jutted out. She didn’t have the energy to cry.
The model agent squatted next to her on the dirt path. His arm wrapped around her shoulder, breath smelling of cigars masked with spearmint. “Fashion Week is so fun, you know. Tyra Banks. Twiggy. You’ll make lots of friends. You’ll wear diamonds. And paparazzi will take your photos. You’ll make so much money. Magazine covers. Big parties at the Plaza Hotel.”
And then she noticed his teeth. They were so white they looked fake, like the plastic vampire dentures she wore at Halloween.
“I don’t care about diamonds.”
“What do you want?”
Ava thought for a moment. She rushed into the trailer and
came out with a McDonald’s Happy Meal box. She opened up the golden arches to reveal a fluffy brown hamster. There were min- iature chairs made out of paper. And she had put popcorn and French fries inside for him to eat.
“Can you get Mr. Puffles a cage?” she asked. “And some ham- ster food?”
“We’ll get him a castle.”
She scooped up the chocolate box and Mr. Puffles and went straight for the Mercedes. She didn’t say a word to her mother. She didn’t even look at her.
The agent chased her with a childish giddiness. His feet spun out like a cartoon character’s, kicking up dust.