Hunger (3 page)

"Princess," her father said, his voice gentle, yet still full of reproach. "What happened? Did you get too caught up in your card game?"

"Sorry, Daddy." Her voice was raw, harsh to her ears. "I got distracted."

"Whatever could distract my seventeen-year-old daughter on a Saturday evening? Certainly not the thought of her boyfriend picking her up in two hours." Her father let out a wry chuckle. "Daydream about James later, Princess. Please set the table."

Blushing, Lisa took plates out of the cabinet, grabbed two cloth napkins, and rummaged in the silverware drawer. Her gaze locked on the Scales, she set the table for two, careful not to touch the balance with the plates.

Mr. Lewis approached, plastic containers in his hands. Lisa stepped aside.

He has to see it
, she thought.
There's no room for the food and the plates and the—

For a moment, her father blocked her view. Then he straightened up as he stepped away, and Lisa saw that where the Scales had been, now there was a container of steamed chicken and broccoli, a carton of steamed brown rice, and a smaller carton of roast pork fried rice.

Lisa bolted to the back door and wrenched it open. In the darkness of night, the horse's eyes glowed like twin stars.

Her blood pounded in her ears, thunderous, each beat pronouncing doom. She felt as if she were going to faint.

"Princess? What's wrong?" Lisa heard her father come stand behind her. "What is it?" he asked, sounding concerned.

The horse let out a snort, as if it, too, were gently reproaching her.

"Nothing," she said quietly, staring at the dark horse in the open darkness of the garden, black on black. "It's nothing."

***

In the garden, the horse chuffed out another breath. Although it wanted to roam once again—feel its hooves trod upon impressionable soil as its mane and tail danced in the wind, taste the delights the world had to offer—its rider was not yet ready.

The horse's ears flicked back, in a sort of equine shrug. It didn't mind waiting in the garden, not really. After all the places it had traveled recently, it didn't mind a short break.

It regarded the rhododendrons, greens giving way to scarlets as autumn advanced, and it let out a sigh. Pretty, certainly. But not as good as pralines.

The horse might have been amused if it had known about the human saying, "If wishes were horses, dreamers would ride." Its rider was not the dreamer of the Four. That description belonged to Death. Even so, the horse wished it had something sweet upon its tongue.

Soon, soon. When a creature lived forever, waiting was as second nature as breathing.

Thinking about the foods to come, the horse bent its head to the bush and began to nibble.

Inside the Lewis house, Lisabeth chewed and chewed and chewed her food. As she swallowed, around the world, hunger was momentarily sated.

***

James was fifteen minutes late, as usual. Normally, Lisa wasn't bothered by his habitual tardiness. Tonight, though, her temper was short, and she welcomed him with an acerbic tongue barely softened by her chaste kiss on his cheek. "Watch broken again?"

"Cut my head off much?" he replied, an easy smile on his face. Clearly, he wasn't rising to the bait—not yet, anyway.

She relented. "I'm a bit tense," she said by way of apology. James had come via the front door. No black horse loitering by the mailbox, at least; she'd checked—twice.

"I can see that." Standing in the doorway, he peered at her, his gaze intense, drinking in her features until she wanted to beg him to look away. "You look tired," he said.

She nodded. "Didn't sleep well last night." That was the God's honest truth.

"Sorry," he said, sheepish. He reached for her hand and held it firmly. His was large and deliciously warm around hers. "I know at least part of that's my fault."

She didn't deny it; their fight last night had been spectacular. Lisa didn't even remember what it had been about; she had a hard time recalling details lately. Specifics seemed to blur, smeared memories in her mind like oil stains. Take last night's fight: here, a smudge of James's words, hesitant like his fingers tracing the curve of her waist; there, a blot of her accusations, ugly as the cellulite on her thighs. Their voices raised, all reds and blacks, overripe and rotting. Try as she might, the heated argument last night was nothing clearer than that: impressions of feelings, emphasized with color.

He had apologized, though—that much she did remember. His hands, caressing her face, gently brushing away her tears. His lips, pressing against hers so softly, as if afraid she would bruise. A tender "I'm so sorry," and her chest fluttered, loosened. She could still taste the ghost of him on her lips even now: mint gum and a hint of apple.

Surely she'd remember something that had left her so depressed that she'd attempted to kill herself by overdosing. But she didn't. Maybe she could have recalled the fight, if she tried hard enough—there had been a time not so long ago when she was able to remember details of their arguments down to the smug looks and angry gestures. But now she just didn't have the energy.

Lisa smiled at James. It felt tight on her face. "It's okay," she said, not exactly lying.

"If you're not up for it, we don't have to go out. We can stay in, watch something on HBO," he said, then added with a wink, "Do that cuddling thing you girls like so much."

God, staying in sounded so nice. But she knew he wanted to go out. It had been, what, weeks since they'd actually done anything besides hang out at either his house or hers. "No, really. I'm fine. I'll just get my jacket."

He eyed her sweater. "You might not need it."

"You know me," she said lightly. "Always cold."

A long pause, then he said, "Cold hands, warm heart." He smiled at her, but his smile looked as strained as hers felt.

Flustered, she marched to the closet and yanked her jacket off its hanger. Was he still mad at her? Why was he getting weird about her wanting a coat? It wasn't as if it was the middle of summer. Nights were chilly. Everyone knew that. She'd even seen some people wearing gloves lately. Like the delivery man last night...

Lisa frowned. What had happened to the scales?

From upstairs, Mr. Lewis called out, "Is that James I hear?"

"Hello, sir," James said loudly.

Lisa's dad walked down the stairs, approaching the young couple. "Have you come to steal my daughter away?"

"Just for a few hours, sir."

"What are your intentions toward my daughter?"

James grinned, used to the ritual. Lisa, who never liked being discussed as if she were neither present nor an actual person, quietly slipped on her jacket. James announced, "To take her to a movie and bring her home before curfew."

"And what happens if you bring her home after curfew?"

James replied solemnly, "I owe you another lifetime of servitude."

"And how many are we up to now, James?"

"Six, I think."

"Good, good." Mr. Lewis clapped James on the back fondly. He liked James; he always had, from back when Lisa had been taller than James. "You should date him," Mr. Lewis would say to Lisa, who would groan, properly appalled by her father (A) commenting on her dating life, and (B) telling her to date one of her good friends. When Lisa had finally relented a year ago, it had been a tossup whether James had been happier than her father over the news.

"You have money, Princess?"

Lisa nodded, then turned to James. "My purse is upstairs. Be right back."

She went upstairs and into her bedroom, intending just to grab her purse and head right back down. But her reflection in the vanity mirror caught her eye, and once caught, she froze, helpless.

She saw herself there in the glass, the Lisabeth Lewis that she hated more than anything else: fat and scared, desperately attempting to mask her flaws with baggy clothing and a glint of makeup. Even with the jacket on, she couldn't disguise her bulk, the sheer heaviness of her frame. God, how could she think to leave the house looking like this?

On her dressing table, her wide-handled brush lay like a discarded magic wand. Lisa snatched it and began to brush her hair—long strokes, from root to tip, counting with every movement. One hundred strokes would get her hair gleaming. One hundred strokes would keep James's attention on her face and away from her bloated body. Yes, one hundred strokes would save her. That, and maybe different earrings. Maybe the diamond studs her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Or perhaps the understated gold hoops. No, wait, she should wear the silver snowflake drops that James had given her for Valentine's Day. Yes, he'd like that...

She realized she'd lost track of what brushstroke she was up to. Grimacing, she started over.

At fifty-three, there came a knock on her open door. In the mirror, she saw James standing in the doorway, his brow creased, his expression puzzled.

"Leese? Thought you were grabbing your purse."

"Just have to finish my hair," she said, determined not to lose count.

"It looks great."

"I need another minute."

"All right." He entered her room without asking, but after knowing her for so long, he didn't really need her permission.

She watched his reflection sit on her bed and she wondered at the troubled look in his eyes.

"Maybe we could get something to eat before we go to the movie," he said gamely. "Grab some fries at the diner."

Sixty-one. Sixty-two.
She could drink water and get a head of iceberg lettuce, no dressing.
Sixty-four, sixty-five.
"Sure."

"You'd be okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" That had come out defensive. Angrily, she kept brushing.
Seventy. Seventy-one.

There was a long pause before James spoke. "I just don't want to upset you again, that's all."

"Why would going out to a diner upset me?"

"It wouldn't. You're right. I'm sorry."

She kept brushing. "Okay then."

There was another pause, longer this time. "Suzanne called me. Told me she's worried about you."

Lisa waited until she reached one hundred brushstrokes before she responded. "I don't care what she has to say."

"She thinks you're not eating."

"She's wrong." God knew, Lisa ate. She ate too damn much. That's why she looked so fat in everything she wore. She set down the brush, then fumbled through her jewelry drawer for the silver earrings.

As she put them on, James said, "You know you're my girl, right?"

"Sure." She even managed a smile.

"And you can talk to me. About anything. You know that, right?"

Her smile slipped a little. "I know." They'd always talked, way before they'd ever kissed. There was a time when Lisa would have sworn James had known her better than she'd known herself. But that was before the Thin voice. And no matter how much she cared for James, and he for her, she could never tell him about
that.
"I really love these earrings," she said brightly, her smile back on, full wattage.

"They look terrific on you." James stood up and walked over to her, until he was standing behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he leaned his chin down on her shoulder and hugged her, gently, as if he were afraid of crushing her. "Leese," he said softly, "you know if there was a problem or anything, you know I'm here for you. Don't you?"

An old-fashioned set of scales shone brightly in Lisa's mind, momentarily blinding her to her obsession over her weight. She thought about telling James her dream, the horse, the Scales.

And decided against it. It was bad enough that one day, James would wake up and realize he was wasting his time with her. The last thing she should do was let him know she was probably certifiable.

***

In the garden, the black horse was joined by a pale horse. The two steeds munched on rhododendrons and swished their tales. A few adventuresome mosquitoes buzzed near their rumps and then settled down for a nibble. A moment later, a cluster fell to the ground, starved and dying. The rest simply fell down dead.

The Pale Rider stood beneath Lisabeth's window, unseen, listening to the girl talk with the boy. After a few minutes, the Rider sighed.

"Sure," Death said to no one in particular. "And the others call
me
a slacker."

Even before she accidentally turned the food to ash, Lisa knew that going to the diner was a mistake.

It had been the smell. Walking through those double doors, Lisa had been hit with a wave of aroma that made her mouth water and her head spin. Joe's was a greasy spoon of a diner, with burgers that dripped juices as you bit into them and fries that were to die for. She remembered the smells, the tastes, so much more.

She and James when they're just friends, sitting with Suzanne and the others in their usual group, all laughing about the stupid horror movie they just saw, and James is taking french fries and pretending they're fangs and he makes like he's going to bite Lisa's neck and she's howling with laughter...

Smelling those burgers, those hedonistic french fries, sent Lisa's self-control into a tailspin as she walked with James to their usual booth in the corner. By the time they were seated, her willpower had crashed and burned.

She and James, newly dating, strolling through the diner door hand in hand and Suzanne leading the chorus of "About Time" and Lisa's cheeks heating because everyone's looking at her differently than before and she sees two popular girls rolling their eyes as if to say, "What does he see in her?" and she feels fat for the first time ever as James dangles a cheese fry over her open mouth...

When the waitress came over, James ordered the cheese fries and a Cherry Coke. Lisa primly requested lettuce and a Diet Coke, but her heart was cannonballing in a pool of hot oil and frying potatoes.

She and James sitting in the corner booth, their booth, and she snaps at James as he eats his fries because God it's so unfair that guys can just eat and eat and eat and not gain a pound, but James doesn't know she's upset about the food so he snaps back and they get into their first fight right there in the diner in front of everyone...