A Whole New World (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,4

certainly wouldn’t support Rasoul’s. The guard swore in frustration and Aladdin ran as fast as he could, leaping from rooftop to rooftop in a random pattern. Without a clear thought or plan, he concentrated on just putting as much distance between himself and the market as he could before descending into the quieter, darker Quarter of the Street Rats.

A chittering scream announced that Abu had finally caught up. He leapt onto Aladdin’s shoulder and clung there while the boy, still being cautious, kept to the shadows and ducked into empty houses: through their cracking windows, out their gaping doors.

Finally he felt they could stop when they came to a cul-de-sac so decrepit and useless that it acted as a makeshift garbage dump for the slums. No city workers came to take the refuse away, and it grew in piles that the poorest of the poor picked over, hoping for an overlooked scrap. It was smelly, but it was safe.

“Whew, the old man’s getting slower, but he’s getting smarter,” Aladdin admitted grudgingly, clapping the dust off his pants and vest. “And now, Esteemed Effendi, we feast.”

He settled down at the base of the wall and finally broke his bread, giving half to Abu, who grabbed it excitedly.

But just as Aladdin was about to take a big, welcoming bite, the clatter of something hitting the pavement stopped him.

He expected guards.

He expected to run again.

He didn’t expect to see two of the smallest, scrawniest children in Agrabah. They jumped, scared by the noise they had made themselves while picking through the garbage, looking for something to eat. When they spotted Aladdin, they didn’t quite cling to each other but moved closer for safety. Their eyes were huge. Their bellies were shrunken. Only on closer inspection could he tell one was a girl; their rags were shapeless and they were very, very skinny.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. You look familiar. Have we met before?”

The children said nothing and hid whatever they had—bones, melon rinds—behind their backs.

Street Rats take care of each other. The words of his mother traveled across the years to him.

“Here,” he said, getting up slowly without making any sudden movements. He knew what it was like being afraid that anyone bigger, healthier, or older than you would hurt you and steal whatever you had. He held his hands out: one empty, in peace, the other with the bread.

The two children couldn’t help staring at the bread.

“Take it,” he urged softly.

They didn’t need much compelling. The girl, bolder, reached out and took it, trying not to grab. She murmured, “Thank you,” before immediately tearing it almost in half. She gave the larger piece to her skinnier, tinier brother.

Abu watched this interestedly, chewing on his piece.

Aladdin felt a lump of anger form in his throat.

When was the last time those two kids had a full meal or a good, long, clean drink of water? This was the way he had been as a child. Nothing had changed. The sultan still sat in his beautiful golden-domed palace, playing with his toys while people starved on the streets. Nothing would ever change until the sultan—or someone—woke up and saw how his people were suffering.

Aladdin sighed and lifted Abu onto his shoulder. He walked home slowly, belly empty of bread but full of anger and despair.

EVENING CAME: the sun began its downward journey, the moon prepared to rise, and Aladdin woke from his afternoon nap eager for the promise of a fresh start. And this, perhaps more than his fleet-as-the-wind feet, his quick mind, and his quicker tongue, was what had kept him alive and healthy all those years growing up in the slums: endless optimism. If he just kept his eyes and mind open, anything was possible.

Even dinner.

He traveled out of the Quarter of the Street Rats to prey on merchants who were perhaps a little less familiar with him and his techniques. Monkeys weren’t that unusual in Agrabah; monkeys who hung out at the market a lot and continually stole things were.

“I feel like it’s a melon day,” Aladdin said, scoping out a potential mark from the shadows of a camel wagon. His stomach growled in agreement at the thought of a ripe, juicy piece of fruit. The events of the morning were still fresh in his mind, however, and they weighed in on his decision. The melon merchant in question was screaming at a woman and refusing to haggle.

“I would die of starvation myself if I lowered my prices for you. Everybody would