Kids of Appetite

  There was a certain palpable energy in the air—we all felt it. As if the Terminal Note were a treasure map and we’d just pinpointed X.

  I said, “Okay, let’s come at this the other way.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Baz.

  “Well, instead of trying to figure out the wishing well, Vic, can you think of any other locations that meant something special to your parents? Their first date, maybe, or high school, or—”

  “How about where they got married?” said Coco.

  VIC

  Coco informed us she would need eleven-ish additional minutes to decide which ice cream to choose (natural flavors be damned). This would, according to her, “square us up,” considering she’d been the one to figure out the clue.

  Ergo, Mad went outside for a cigarette.

  Ergo, I followed.

  We sat on the curb and she lit up and I wished she wouldn’t. I just wanted the earth to have Mad for as long as it could. And her smoking habit was historically and scientifically proven to foil these plans.

  “We’re not going to find the wishing well, you know,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit, Spoils.”

  “Not at the church where my parents got married, I mean.”

  “How do you know?” asked Mad.

  I told Mad it was just a feeling I had, but the truth was, since Dad died, I’d spent hours going through old family photos. I was probably the only teenager who could tell you exactly what his mom’s wedding dress looked like. And the cake, and the flowers, and the groomsmen and bridesmaids, and yes, even the church. (St. Bart’s on Bridge Street.) I’d memorized it all. The thing was, had Dad not died, I probably never would have studied those photos for hours on end, which means I wouldn’t know that St. Bart’s is constructed of old stone and has a giant red door with a crack running straight down the middle like it was the only church ever to get struck by lightning.

  But he did die and I did know those things.

  I also knew there was no wishing well. I hadn’t been there, but the photos were thorough and comprehensive. That said, I had no better suggestions. And part of me wanted to see the church in person anyway. If Dad’s list was a blueprint, St. Bart’s was like ground zero or something.

  “Uh-oh,” said Mad.

  Behind us, a group of kids walked our way, their footsteps heavy and hard. One of them wore Asics: one purple, one black. Roland and company, the kids from the bridge. There was no way to avoid them this time. As they neared, I kept my head down, tried my best to ignore the barrage of oh-my-Gods, and what-the-fucks, and get-a-load-of-thats.

  So many feet, so many words.

  The mocking continued as they passed us, headed into the grocery. And just when I thought it might be safe to look up again, Mad yelled, “Hey!”

  “Wait. Mad. What are you doing?”

  She stood from the curb, dusted off her jeans. “Come here a sec!”

  “Mad, don’t.”

  But it was too late. Led by Roland and his mismatched Asics, the group slowly spilled back out of Foodville, practically landing in our laps. And like that, Mad completely transformed. She smiled like a siren and tossed her hair around in that way guys like. In that way I like.

  I don’t know. I guess the old deck gun had pretty shit timing.

  “Whaddup, girl?” said Roland.

  I still couldn’t remember his nickname. It had something to do with cereal. Or a rapper, or something.

  “Yeah-hey,” said Mad, siren-smile intact. “What’s your name again?”

  I barely recognized her voice, all high-pitched and flirty.

  “Name’s Roland, but my boys call me the Pops.”

  There it was. The Pops. Classic.

  One of his sidekicks crossed his arms. “Mad props to the Pops!”

  “Mad props to the Pops!” they chimed.

  This is the language of boys.

  It is why I’m an alien.

  Mad pointed at me while I kept my head down; I wondered if it were possible to shrink my entire body into my boots. “You see him?” she asked. “That’s Bruno Victor Benucci III.”

  “So?” said the Pops.

  “So,” said Mad, “Bruno Victor Benucci III is son of Dame Doris Benucci, and the late Bruno Victor Benucci the Second. Ring a bell?”

  The Pops consulted his minions, returned with a staunch “Um, no.”

  “Well,” said Mad, “Bruno Victor Benucci the Second was a big-time earner for the Northern Dancers.”

  “The whatsits?”

  “Northern Dancers, aka our friends up north, bada bing, bada boom . . .” She snapped her fingers, and did a few nonsensical hand-to-elbow gestures.

  One of the minions said, “Dude,” to which the Pops nodded in agreement. “Th’fuck you talking about?”

  “What I’m talking about,” said Mad, “is the mafia.”

  The effect was immediate. The Pops gazed up and down the street as if Al Capone himself might round the bend with a tommy gun pointed at his head. “Shit, yo,” he whispered.

  “Shit, yo is right, Mr. Pops,” said Mad. “Now, what you guys do is none of my business. I just wanted to make sure you knew who you were laughing at, is all.”

  I watched the mismatched Asics slowly make their way toward me. Roland “the Pops” kneeled so we were eye level. “Sorry, yo. Had no idea you were connected.” He cleared his throat, looked around nervously. “Say, uh. Could you put in a good word for me with the Northern whatsits—?”

  “Dancers,” said Mad.

  God, I could marry her right now.

  The Pops nodded enthusiastically. “Dancers, right. If you could do that, yo, it sure would mean a lot, Mr. Benucci. And of course, you don’t gotta worry about anybody at school making fun of you anymore.”

  I looked him dead in the eye, daring him to look away. “Why would anyone make fun of me?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Right. Nah, I mean, of course, no reason. I just meant—I’ll look out for you. That’s all.” He wiped sweat off his forehead. “So. Will you? Put in a word?”

  Dad was an absolute ace at finding the advantages of his disadvantages. And he’d done his best to teach me the same. Right now I was grateful for my killer poker face and for once took comfort in my inability to smile.

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I said, shrugging. “That’s the best I can do.”

  The Pops broke into a huge smile, shook my hand, and led his army of cretins inside Foodville. As soon as they were out of sight, we burst out laughing.

  “Guess you don’t have to worry about those guys anymore,” said Mad.

  “Thanks to the Northern Whatsits.”

  “Thanks to the Northern Whatsits.”

  . . .

  . . .

  “How do you do it?” asked Mad.

  “Do what?”

  “How do you stand guys like that?”

  If I thought hard enough, I could recall my earliest memory of getting picked on. First grade. Mark Something, with the big ears. There have been many Marks through the years—kids who made fun of others before someone could make fun of them. I guess I just never understood why anyone had to make fun of anyone.

  “I’m used to bullies,” I said. “But bullies never seem to get used to me.”

  She lit another cigarette, blew smoke into the frosty ether, and again I wished like hell she’d quit.

  Across the street, an attractive couple holding hands quickly turned their heads away from me.

  . . .

  . . .

  “Sometimes I think it’s better than pity,” I said.

  Mad picked a piece of filter off her tongue. “What?”

  . . .

  I often argued with myself. Usually in the shower, but it could happen anywhere. I wasn’t sure if this
was normal, probably not. But hey. I’d pick a side and argue myself silly. And in the ongoing debate between ridicule and pity and which was the greater offense, here were the sides in short summation: ridicule was generally thoughtless, but intentional; pity was generally thought through, but unintentional.

  I still heard the laughter, felt the undiluted revulsion from the Pops and his absurd gang.

  Ridicule cut deep.

  I watched the attractive couple across the street, their eyes pointed dead ahead, careful not to look back in my direction.

  Pity cut deep.

  So which cut deeper? Okay, definitely ridicule, but the better question was, who the fuck cares? It was like asking if you’d rather get hit in the head with a wooden bat or a metal one. You’re on the ground either way, and I guarantee the last thing you care about is the physical properties of the tool that put you there.

  “Vic?”

  “What?”

  “You zoned, man.”

  I cleared my throat. “You should really quit smoking, you know.”

  Mad stomped out her cigarette, looking at me through firework eyes with the opposite of pity and ridicule, whatever that was. And I was absolutely blown away by her morning-type beauty. It was altogether different from her evening-type beauty. I don’t know. Mad had many beauties, and some of them were time sensitive. And all of them made me want to do things I’d never done before.

  There were lots of things I’d never done before.

  MAD

  From Foodville, it was about a fifteen-minute walk to St. Bart’s. For much of that time, I watched Coco eat ice cream straight from the carton, and more than once I caught her admiring her KOA wristband out of the corner of her eye, or holding her wrist in an unnatural position so people passing might see it. Baz always cautioned against drawing too much attention to ourselves, so rather than announce our newly minted gang status to the general public, Coco quietly informed Vic that people around us “best recognize” the Kids of Appetite as more than just a rough-and-tumble type gang, but the kind of gang that “was not lacking in scruples.”

  I honestly couldn’t say where the girl got her material, but it sure was a sight to see.

  The church sat back off the road, surrounded by dead bushes and trees, things winter had wrapped its cold dead hands around, yet to release. The grounds felt hallowed, but also empty, as if the church were the limb of a thriving organism, now amputated. An old stone structure, St. Bart’s was essentially a giant triangle, starting wide at the bottom then rising from the ground like a child’s drawing of a Christmas tree. The roof was severely slanted except at one end where a bell tower rose straight into the sky. The closer we got, the more enchanting it became, beautiful and picturesque in the looming winter.

  We trudged across a parking lot, where someone had scattered rock salt; the only vehicle in sight was an old blue bus with the words GOD’S GEESE painted in red across the side. Underneath the letters, running the entire length of the bus, someone had painted what was probably supposed to be a goose, but had ended up looking more like a furry airplane.

  I reached out a hand, brushed the long neck of the goose as we passed. “I declare this to be the ugliest bus on Earth.”

  Zuz snapped once.

  We crossed the snowy lawn, reached the front door of the church, and just before opening it, Coco let out a low moan and leaned over, hands on knees.

  “Coke, you okay?” I asked.

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  Baz rolled his eyes. “I warned you not to eat the whole pint.”

  Coco shook her head. “It’s the natural flavors.”

  I tried not to smile but couldn’t help it. Vic cracked open the heavy red door, poked his head inside. “There are pews in there. She could lie down.”

  “Oooooooh,” moaned Coco. “I think the anal secrets gave me hemorrhoids.”

  I chuckled. “Strangely enough, that’s probably not the first time that sentence has been uttered.”

  “Coco,” said Baz, shaking his head, “we’ve talked about this. It’s your own fault.”

  They had, in fact, talked about Coco’s inordinate lack of self-control when it came to the consumption of ice cream. This was not the first time she’d made herself sick, which sucked for all parties involved because absolutely no one could wallow in misery like Coco.

  “Hey,” I said, thinking maybe if I could make her laugh, it might defuse the situation. “You guys ever think about how hemorrhoids plus ass equals asteroids?” I raised both arms in the air, shook my hands around. “Hemorrhoids from spaaaaaaace!”

  Coco placed the back of her hand on her forehead, threw her hair back in dramatic fashion. “You guys, go on without me,” she said. “I’m done for.”

  Baz rolled his eyes and scooped her up in his arms while Vic and I held the front door open.

  The inner workings of St. Bart’s were cold and old: in the one giant room, high ceilings came together at the point of the triangle; dark wooden pews, stained-glass windows, and paintings of men in robes filled every nook and cranny; and dust was everywhere. The whole place seemed untouched by time, unsoiled by man, the same yesterday, today, and forever, amen. Incredibly old-new.

  “Simultaneous extreme opposites,” I said.

  Vic took off his hat, tilted his head back until the bottom of his Cinematic Sodapop touched his backpack. I looked up too, saw a mural of Heaven and Hell with angels on one side of the wall, demons on the other.

  “Simultaneous extreme opposites,” he agreed.

  Baz helped Coco lie down on a pew, then made his way to the front of the church, where he knelt in the shadow of a large, hanging crucifix. Zuz wandered up to a ten-foot-tall painting of some plump pale-faced saint, while Vic and I walked down the side of the pews, passing a closed door labeled CHURCH OFFICE, which seemed funny somehow, this touch of modern in a world of ancient. We approached a pulpit at the front of the church. Baz’s eyes were closed, his hands folded, his lips moving quickly in fervent prayer; on the other side of the room, an opening led up a darkened staircase.

  “Maybe we’ll see the wishing well from higher ground,” I said, starting toward the door. Vic gave me a look like he wasn’t convinced, but he followed anyway. As if the church were lacking in mystical portentousness, each wooden step creaked under our feet, and the whole thing suddenly felt like we’d stepped into an episode of Scooby-Doo. We took the rest of the steps two at a time until we reached the top of the stairs.

  “Hey,” I whispered, my voice cutting through the inky blackness.

  “Hey,” said Vic.

  “There’s a door here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why are we whispering?” I asked.

  “I am because you are.”

  “Right. Okay, I’m gonna open the door now.”

  “Wait,” whispered Vic.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, just—hang on.”

  “Okay.”

  Neither of us spoke for a second; somehow the silence seeped into the air like steam, making the pitch-blackness of the stairwell all the darker.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. It’s just weird being here. You can open the door now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  We stepped through the door and onto the weathered floor of the bell tower, and I instinctively raised both hands to shield my eyes from the sun. Vic kept his head down, eyes shielded, and I tried to imagine how painful it would be not being able to blink right now. Once my eyes acclimated, I took in our surroundings: stone walls rose in a circle around us, arching above our heads, coming together in a dome-shaped ceiling. Wide openings were spaced out every five feet or so, and in the middle of it all hung a giant, rusty bell. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the Liberty Bell, like an ancient relic, like decad
es had passed since it was last rung. We stepped up to one of the open-air windows, and I felt like a sentry standing guard on top of some medieval castle, awaiting news of battles from afar.

  “So beautiful,” said Vic. I turned to find him looking out at the view, still shielding his eyes, but with less urgency than before.

  The view, I thought to myself. He’s talking about the view. I was surprised how disappointed this made me. I’d hoped he was talking about me.

  For a minute nothing else was said. The view spoke for itself. It spoke of fields and trees, lovely in their winter-deaths. It spoke of rabbits and birds, what few stuck around during the elderly months of the year. It spoke in bright blankets of snow, miles and miles of it spread out like a down comforter or marshmallow cream. I wanted to crawl under those covers, and I wanted to eat my weight in cream. I wanted to be part of this winter conversation.

  I would say, I’m afraid.

  Of what? the winter would ask.

  I’m afraid for Jamma, and for myself. I’m afraid for our future, afraid we won’t have one. I’m afraid of being so many selves, I’ll never be myself. Is that enough, Winter? Are you happy now, you inquisitive son of a bitch?

  I looked out over the panorama, at this winter conversation I would never be part of, and it occurred to me how much I wanted to interrupt things.

  As if reading my mind, Vic said, “Here.”

  I turned to find him standing by the giant bell, gripping its frayed rope in both hands. And just then as he held out that rope, there was something in his eyes . . . I couldn’t explain it. It was like Vic was a blank sheet of paper, and I was a pen, and at any moment I might write my entire history all over his face. And where there was no smile, I would see one. And in my heart, where there was fear, I might feel a shudder-shock of courage. And in the fields, where the rabbits and birds and pillowy lands carried on their elusive conversation, I knew exactly how to interrupt things.

  I took the rope in my hands and smiled at Vic.