Wicked Hungry (4 page)

“Well, it could be worse,” he says. “At least—”

“At least
what
?”

“At least you can mow the lawn?”

“Thanks, Enrique. I appreciate the sympathy.”

But he’s got me smiling, which is good, actually. I could use a little lightening up. Last night with Karen on the rebound and Zach with his vitamins was weird enough. But this morning with the hair on my chest? And the bleeding gums? And then just leaving out the evidence for my mother to find, knowing how she worries?

It’s got to be the moon. You may think I’m crazy, but this type of crap only happens to me when it’s waxing. I wouldn’t even be surprised if I lose the hair from my chest in a couple of weeks, when the moon fades away to a sliver.

Although I guess it does make me
manlier
for the moment
.

You can see how I need Enrique to distract me. He’s entering Lansfeld High School this year with me, and has lived next door for the last year. From the beginning, he didn’t fit in too well at Walters, but things changed for the better when he got raging acne and started wearing a mohawk. When I say things changed for the better that’s kind of sarcastic. He went from not fitting in to totally standing out. These days when he’s not running, he’s burning me weird punk rock CDs, and I think he could care less what other people think about him.

How can I put it? He’s the yin to my yang. If I didn’t have Enrique, have Jonathan and Karen, I don’t know what I’d do.

Enrique goes back inside as I start pushing the mower across the lawn. A minute later he brings out his stereo and some lawn chairs, and starts blasting some rock
en español
. Soon his brother Andres comes out too, and life becomes bearable.

They sit there watching me, and they cheer me on every time I clear the push mower of another stuck stick. At least I’m amusing someone, and the music makes the mowing go faster.

Maybe they feel bad about laughing at me, because Enrique brings me a Mexican Coke. Mexican Coke could be considered a controlled substance; in the United States, it is too powerful to be sold over the counter.

It’s cold and syrupy and full of caffeine. It calms my teeth and my nerves, although I won’t be surprised if I have trouble sleeping tonight.

I
t would be nice to say it all happened during some big competition. That I went down pulling in a gold, a silver, or even a bronze. But it didn’t happen that way, and I replay it now, lying in my bed. We rented a house on the cape. It’s the summer before eighth grade, and the night is dark and cool. The moon is big. Enormous. Not a crescent, not a waxing gibbous, but full. Gloriously, achingly full. It pulls me out of bed, and I dress in the dark before I know what I’m doing.

Outside I feel loose, I feel strong, I feel ready to take on the whole world, but all there is in front of me is dark and empty beach.

That’s normal.

It’s only two in the morning, and everyone else is asleep. The air is cold as my bare feet slap against the wet sand, and the moon exerts its pull far above me. But you don’t want to hear about the moon. You want to hear about what happened to my knee.

I’m running, just thinking about how cool the wet sand feels under my feet. But the moon is huge. I want to bring my head up, to stop, to stare. I feel the hair rise up on my arms, on the back of my neck. My teeth are so loose I wonder they don’t fall out. It’s too much for me—I should be at home, should be in bed. I need to go back to the house, but instead I close my eyes and keep running, trying to blot out the pale light from up above that somehow keeps pulling at me through my closed lids.

I close my eyes for just one short moment and run on, blind.

I am stronger than the pull up above me. The moon will not control me.

But the pull of the moon gives way to a shock on my foot, and I try to twist around it but it’s too late...or maybe too early. Because I twist and fall at the same time, blinded by the moon, alone on a deserted beach where no one can hear me scream.

I don’t remember who finds me, who calls my parents or who calls the ambulance. My memories are nothing more than snapshots of crawling and dragging myself along that beach. Memories of grunting and pulling myself along the wet sand, punctuated by screams of pain that deepen as my throat grows raw with each new cry into the night.

Somehow, I get to the hospital where I stay for a week.

It is all and all quite an eventful summer. A summer that stays with me.

But I keep more than the pain, the scars and the injury. More than the memories.

Because I go back, you see. When I can walk again with a brace, I have my mother drive me back out to the cape, and we comb the beach until I find it.

It’s still a beautiful piece of driftwood.

If you look at it from one angle you see the face of an old man. From another angle you see two people, intertwined. We take it home and keep it. It is on my wall for awhile, before I take it down and throw it across the room in a fit of rage. Now it’s in the corner of my closet. I’m sick of looking at it, even if it is a beautiful piece of driftwood.

A beautiful piece of driftwood that ruined my life.

Lauren, my physical therapist, is pretty sure I’ll never run again. And if the blink of an eye on a night of the full moon can take running away, what else am I in danger of losing?

I
t’s dark already, cool and stormy, when the doorbell rings.

“I’ve got it!” I yell as I walk carefully to the door. I know who I want it to be, although what are the chances?

I look through the peephole. It’s Karen, alone.

I open the door. “Oh,” I say. “Hey.”

She just stares at me. I smile at her, waiting for her to smile back, but she just keeps looking at me with the same blank stare. “What?” I say. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

“Well, come on in, then.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Outside.”

I walk outside with her into the cold, pulling on a sweater. It’s cloudy and cool and for once I don’t feel the pull of the moon. I’m almost wishing for more overcast weather.

“You going to tell me what’s the matter?” I ask her. “Or you want another hug?”

“It’s not what I want that matters, not anymore, Stanley. Zach was right. Something’s wrong. Really wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Can you stop talking in riddles? It’s cold out here. Tell me what’s going on.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been getting these migraines, whenever I go out in the sun. I mean, I never had one before. I go outside now, in the sun, I even let the sun in through my window, and
boom
—my head is splitting, all I want to do is scream; it’s like my head is exploding. Like the sun is killing me.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Sure. Mom took me to Dr. Cooper. He just smiled and told me to wear sunglasses, but I can tell they think I’m crazy. But I’m not. I just wanted you to know that.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Karen,” I say. “But you should get help.”

“That’s what Zach said,” she says. “But he just made things worse. Those pills of his didn’t solve anything...”

“You sure you don’t want that hug?”

She bites into her fingernail, refuses to look me in the eye. “I don’t think I could handle a hug right now. I’m not even sure I
deserve
one right now.”

“Look,” I say. “It’s like, nine o’clock? Nine thirty? Maybe you should get some sleep.”

She snorts. “Sleep? I wish I could.” She chews at her fingernail. “And that’s not all. I mean, what is the matter with me? I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, but I don’t know what I’m craving. Everything I eat disgusts me. I’m throwing up all the time, and my mom thinks I’m bulimic.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She tears savagely into her nail.

“Ouch,” she says. “Now look what you made me do.”

She’s torn it, and her finger is bleeding.

How do I know she’s bleeding, there in the twilight?

Because I can smell it. Smell the coppery tangy sweetness. Forget Karen; what’s the matter with
me
?

“You okay?” I ask her.

“It’s fine. Just forget it.”

She sticks her finger in her mouth.

Then she gasps. “No,” I hear her whimper. “No, this is
so not happening
.”

“What?” I say. Is her finger bleeding worse than I thought?

“Blood?” she asks herself, in wonder. “No, really,
blood
?”

“Do you want me to get a Band-Aid?” I ask her. “We can put some Neosporin on it.”

She shakes her head, her eyes wide. “No, Stanley, I’m going home. Right now.”

“I’ll get you a Band-Aid, and then I’ll walk you back.”

Like I could keep up with her.

“No,” she says. “I don’t need a bandaid. I need to be alone. Now.”

And she’s gone. Just like that. A red blur in the night.

M
y mother knocks at my door. Somehow I couldn’t sleep last night. The moon was so big, so obscenely full, and as I tossed and turned I kept thinking of running. But who am I kidding? My joints ache; my teeth feel ready to fall out. Then there is that coarse black hair sprouting all over my chest, all over my back.

Maybe I have Lyme disease, after all. I mean, it’s pretty endemic up here in New England. And I love the woods. But if
I
have Lyme disease, what’s the matter with
Karen
? I can’t get her out of my head. That look that came over her face when she sucked her bleeding finger. What is wrong with us?

Whatever else is wrong with me, I know I’m a lunatic. Following the moon’s commands.

Because to night the moon will rise. Full. The biggest moon in months.

And I don’t think I’m ready for it.

“Stanley?” my mother calls.

“Yeah, Mom?” I groan.

“We’re going to Trader Joe’s. You want anything?”

I’m hungry. But not for anything that my mother will buy me. In my church they say shame is a useless emotion. But I’m still filled with it. Filled with shame, and longing. I want to go to Burger King. Now.

I can’t keep this hunger under control. Maybe Enrique has something that would satisfy? I’ve got to do something. School will start soon, and I can barely walk on the best of days. But when the moon is waxing? When it’s full? What am I going to do at school if my teeth start to bleed, if my joints hurt so bad I can’t walk, can barely stand? What am I going to tell the nurse? What will my mom think?

There’s only one person who might be able to help. Not my Uncle Eli. Not anyone in Providence, either. Someone a lot closer to home.

But I’m afraid to call him. I mean, once we were great friends. Now I’m not so sure what he’s up to. Karen doesn’t trust him, but I don’t think anyone else has any answers.

My window’s open, and I hear someone outside. My God, is it him? Or is it her? Someone fast, in any case. Lately my senses seem to be on overdrive. Not just feeling the moon, but movement, out in the streets. Out in the woods. Smelling things too, from blocks away.

The doorbell rings. I hobble down the steps, open the front door, but there’s no one there. He was here, though; I know it was him. But now he’s gone. He’s so fast.

What did he want?

It’s warm outside, and the sun feels good on my skin.

I turn to go back inside, when I notice something. There’s a little brown paper bag. On my doorstep.

I look next door, and there’s another one on Enrique’s front porch. Another little brown paper bag, twisted shut at the top.

I reach down and bring mine inside.

The paper is warm from the sun. Inside there is a bottle. Made of black glass, which is kind of strange, but I guess that’s normal for Zach—he hates plastic. The label though, is paper, covered with strange symbols that shimmer in the light, but words, too: “ETERNAL CLEANSE. All-natural, Organic, Biodynamic, Holistic Vitamin and Cleansing Supplement. Helps with Focus, Pain, Healing, and Other Assorted Ailments. Take three times a day with or without meals until bottle is empty. Contains 90 pills.”

A month’s supply, then.

Forget it. This is madness. I’m going to play with some vitamins, when I don’t even know what’s wrong with me? And if Karen’s right, and they change me?

Change could be good right now.

But if things got worse?

No, forget it. Things can’t get worse. Karen is crazy. I mean, I already have dark black hair all over my chest and back, have loose teeth and aching joints. What next, are my teeth going to fall out? Am I going to sprout fur?

One little pill is not going to kill me.

I’ll take one and see how it affects me. It’s got to be more natural than what the doctor prescribed me, right? It probably won’t hurt me, and what if...what if it helps me? Zach may be a pain, but he’s wicked smart. The boy can grow anything practically just by looking at it, all without chemicals; he hates them so much he wouldn’t take an aspirin if he were dying.

Most of all I don’t see why he’d lie to me about my knee. I might as well trust him. What do I have to lose? But I’ll walk inside to get something to eat first. I don’t want to upset my stomach.

A
few days later I can’t say I feel a dramatic change, just more of an absence. It takes me a while to figure it out.

My knee hasn’t ached all day.

And I’m smiling.

My parents can’t understand why. I’m not going to tell them, either.

I take a walk instead, and leave the brace at home. The sun is hot, but the wind is cool, cold almost. Can I catch just a hint of fall color in some of the leaves? Is it really already September? Fall comes so early here in New England.

I walk by Jonathan’s house and think about walking up and knocking. But he’s probably still gone at drawing camp. The boy is going to write some serious graphic novel someday.

Me, I can’t wait until summer is over. I barely see Enrique except when he’s running by; the rest of the time he’s over at the garage, helping his dad and his big brother work on car engines.