Onions HTML version

A pick-up truck cut in front of the Hotshot causing the elderly driver to swerve onto the
shoulder. Without missing a beat, Mrs. Fuller shouted an obscenity, steered back into the
lane, and
continued down the highway.
Chapter One
Onions Meets His Match
Charles Wesley Onions hated everything. He hated his father for dying when Onions was
and leaving him alone with his alcoholic mother. He hated his mother for sending him off
to a foster
home when he was seven. He hated his first foster mom who beat him and the 15 other
foster parents
who abused him and made him work before and after school. But most of all, Onions
hated himself.
He was chubby, had freckles popping out all over his face, and his nose was too short. At
12, he was
big for his age, and he knew his clot of red hair made him a target for those stupid, snot-
nosed kids at
school. His eyes revealed a wariness gained from too many blows delivered too early in
his young life.
This was Charles Wesley Onions' state of mind when he tried to steal Mrs. Fuller's purse.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon and Onions had just gotten out of school. He'd only
attending Mark Twain middle school two months, having just been sent to his 16th foster
home in two
years. His new foster mother, Mrs Williams, had two young kids and a baby, and Onions,
once again,
felt like an intruder. She hadn't abused him, at least so far, but he was expecting the
worst. He knew
she'd taken him in for one reason only: the payment she received from the State Adoption
Mrs. Williams had already mentioned several times that Onions had to work. She needed
the money.
They always needed the money. He'd thought about robbing a bank and taking off, but
there was
something called prison ... and he'd heard that prison wasn't a nice place for young boys
with freckles.
Onions was gliding slowly down the sidewalk on his skateboard near the town square of
when he saw Mrs. Fuller's Hotshot pull to the curb fifty feet ahead of him. As he
watched, Sandrine
hopped briskly out of the car with the alacrity of a trained athlete, hurried to a parking
meter, and
opened her purse. Onions saw his chance. He picked up his skateboarding pace and
zoomed toward