Hunger (4 page)

Lisa sipped her calorie-free soda and told herself she could have one cheese fry. Just one. She could do a couple hundred sit-ups when she got home. She'd have one fry, and that would both satisfy her screaming taste buds and mollify James, who'd already said they could split his order. In fact, he'd seemed glad that she was interested in food at all.

Of course he is
, she thought darkly. Guys always thought with their stomachs. And Suzanne—former friend Suzanne, ex-friend Suzanne—had all but poisoned James into thinking that Lisa wasn't eating. Yes, Lisa decided: just one fry would do wonders, for Lisa and James both.

You're weak
, the Thin voice scolded.

Lisa wavered.
It's just one.

It's dripping with grease. Yellow, nasty grease that will coat your thighs and butt and hips, and add to the wings under your arms.

Lisa imagined the cheese fry, pictured dipping it into a blob of catsup. She practically tasted the heady combination of starch and sweetness and salt, covered with slick, bubbly cheese, slightly browned.

Her stomach gurgled.

Panicked, she covered her belly with her hand to muffle the sound. James didn't notice, thank God. He sat across from her, smiling, his posture relaxed, except for the tiny ridge between his eyes. Lisa thought of it as his worry line. It almost made her laugh: here she was, on the verge of a breakdown over the Pavlovish power of french fry odor, but James was the one worrying. About her, probably. At times, he could be so overprotective.

Well, one fry would soothe his fears. That would prove she wasn't some basket case, no matter what her so-called friend Suzanne had to say.

The Thin voice sniffed its derision.
You're weak. You're fat because you're weak.

Over her stomach, Lisa's hand balled into a fist. Her nails bit into the meat of her palm, and through the pain she told herself not to cry—not in front of James, out here where everyone could see. The diner was crowded—it was Saturday night, after all, and everyone knew that Joe's had the best cheap food in town. They'd said hi to a handful of kids from school, all hanging out at the diner until it was time to hit the movies, or the pool hall, or the bowling alley. Too many people were here. Lisa absolutely, positively couldn't cry. God, she wanted to go home.

"Hey," James said, his voice startled. "What's wrong?"

She painted on a smile. "Nothing."

"You look upset."

"I'm good," she said, just as her phone buzzed. She slipped it out of her pocket and saw that it was a message from Tammy:

UR BOY IS HAWT

Lisa glanced around until she spotted Tammy four tables down, sitting with about ten other people. She texted back:

HE IS

She didn't have anything else to say, so she let it go at that. Knowing Tammy was in the diner made her rethink the french fry choice. Lisa should've known the other girl would be here; Tammy came to Joe's often. But then, Tammy's house was not even two minutes away; she didn't have to worry about public stalls to take care of her snacking. It certainly saved her from having to bring a barf bag with her.

Lisa sipped her diet soda and fretted. If only she had as much control as Tammy. If only she could bring herself to vomit, she wouldn't be sitting here, freaking out over one stupid cheese fry.

You're weak
, the Thin voice said again. And Lisa agreed.

Another buzz. This time, the message said:

WHAT R U GONNA EAT?

Lisa texted back:

LETTUCE & DC

James slurped his soda, probably because he knew it annoyed her. He asked, "Who's texting you when you're out on such a hot date?"

"It's just Tammy."

"Ah."

That one word held a dictionary's worth of meaning, ranging from "I forgot you're friends with her" to "She's nasty." James didn't like Tammy. Lisa couldn't fathom why. Tammy was funny and smart and understanding. Anger bubbled in Lisa's belly. At times, James could be so mean.

But he was a guy. Guys didn't get things the way girls did; the way Tammy did, anyway. Tammy was a good friend—her best friend. Faithful—completely unlike Suzanne.

Buzz. Lisa glanced at her phone. The message read:

UR SO GOOD

That made Lisa smile. Fortified with Tammy's approval, Lisa sipped her Diet Coke. No french fry for her. Soon they'd leave Joe's and be on their way to the movie. In the darkness of the theater, she'd sit with James's hand in hers and her head on his shoulder, and for that little pocket of time, she'd be comforted and safe from everything, from the Thin voice and her own scorn. She'd watch the movie, and she'd be happy, if only for a little while.

James said something funny, and Lisa laughed. His worry line eased, and the two fell into the dating routine they had perfected over the past year. Lisa allowed herself to relax. It looked like she was going to make it through the diner test.

But then the plate of fries arrived, dripping with melted cheese. Lisa's bowl of iceberg wedges looked washed out and sickly compared to the golden hues of the cheese fries—the white gold of the cheddar, steaming and decadent; the suntanned strips of potato, sizzling, enticing.

Oh God.

Lisa forked lettuce into her mouth and didn't taste the crispness of the leaves as she chewed. She tried not to stare at the platter of french fries as her sensory glands overloaded.

James drowned the fries in catsup, then picked up a mutilated shoestring, heavy with cheese and dripping red. He shoved it into his mouth indelicately, made sounds of animal pleasure as he worked his jaw, chewing. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Man," he said with a grin, "I forgot how good these can be. Here, try one."

Her breath caught in her throat. Keeping her smile frozen on her face, she took her fork and stabbed a fry, then deposited it on her plate, near the edge so it wouldn't touch the lettuce. Picking up her knife, she cut the fry into cubes, and then again into smaller cubes. And then she took a sip of diet soda, and smiled even bigger at James, and she proceeded not to eat the fry she so desperately wanted to put into her mouth.

James talked to her, and she made all the appropriate sounds and head motions, but for the life of her, Lisa couldn't have told you what he was talking about. It was as if his words were coming to her from under water—thick, distorted, rolling away before the sounds made sense. All she could think about was the french fry, and how she wanted it and hated it and wished it would just go away.

In her mind, she saw a set of gleaming bronze scales ... and then her vision went black.

She gasped, and then a coughing fit seized her, shredding the blackness with every choked-off wheeze.

"Leese?" James's voice sounded concerned. "You okay?"

No, you idiot, I'm not okay. I'm choking.
But Lisa couldn't speak, so she nodded, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, and she took some hasty sips of Diet Coke. Once she could find her voice, she said, "Just swallowed wrong."

"Can happen when you eat too fast."

Great, now he was mocking her. She drank more soda and tried not to hate James, sitting there so smugly, so untouched by the powerful aroma of cheese fries. She sipped, realizing that at least when food was involved, she was able to feel. Maybe the emotion was bitter and hateful, but it was better than the vacuum she otherwise seemed to dwell in.

Food was real. Everything else paled.

"Damn, I'm starving."

James's voice snapped her out of her bleak thoughts, and she saw him shovel in mouthful after mouthful of french fries. It was disgusting and fascinating, a culinary car wreck that she couldn't tear her gaze from. He slobbered; he snuffled. Her boyfriend was a pig. Who was the witch that turned men into hogs? Circe? Medea? One of those Greek villainesses, wasn't it? At that moment, Lisa completely related.

Not pausing to swallow, he said, "Want another before I finish them all?"

God, he was torturing her. She was about to say something harmless, such as she wanted to finish her lettuce first, but then she glanced down at her own plate, and her voice failed her.

The diced-up fry was gone. In its place was a streak of fine black ash, as if someone had scraped the burned part off toast and dumped it on her plate. Most of the lettuce was gone, too; some wilted pieces remained, as far from the scorched bits as possible.

She didn't realize her hand was shaking until she dropped her fork. Lisa swallowed thickly as she retrieved the utensil from the table, and damned if she didn't have the taste of cheese fries in her mouth.

Well, cheese fries and lettuce. Two great tastes that went great together.

"Lisa," James said, "your face just turned green."

"Did it?" Her voice sounded far away and tinny, as if she were hearing a poor recording.

"Yeah." He reached over and touched her forehead. "And you're sweating. You sure you're feeling okay?"

"Just fine," she said faintly, staring at the plate where her french fry and lettuce had, apparently, disintegrated.

That was insane. That was ludicrous. Food didn't just vanish, poof, all gone.

In her mind, she heard a cold voice whisper from the depths of a nightmare: "
Thou art Famine.
"

She stared at her plate.

"Lisa?"

"Excuse me," she said, then stumbled off to the ladies' room to vomit. Tammy would have been proud.

***

By Lisa's garden, the black horse and pale horse were joined by a white horse. The remaining mosquitoes had learned their lesson and stayed far, far away as the steeds continued to graze.

The White Rider said nothing as the Pale Rider strummed on an acoustic guitar, playing a soul-rending tune that mixed hope and despair in equal portions. Death sang, the words written by a singer long dead. Soon the music stopped, and the last line was sung. Only then did Pestilence speak.

"All in all," he said, "is all we are? Does that even make sense?"

Death grinned at him. "It does if you have the soul of a poet."

Pestilence sighed. Death, he'd learned long ago, was weird. "So, how fares our newest comrade?"

"She's having dinner."

"She's..." The White Rider's words faded, and he stared owlishly at the Pale Rider. "Surely, you're joking."

"Nope. She's conflicted."

"You don't say." Pestilence spat; where his spittle landed, the ground sizzled and smoked. "So, what are you doing?"

"Waiting."

"Of course," the White Rider said dryly. "You're so very good at that."

Death shrugged. "Why be impatient? They all come to me, in their time."

That made Pestilence nod. At the end of it all, even he, finally, would be subject to Death's cold touch. With his luck, that fateful day would be long and long away. He shouldered his bow, one that needed neither string nor arrow. "I have to go; South Africa has another virus brewing."

"You'll stop by to say your hellos when you're through?"

That wasn't really a question, no matter how it was phrased. "Of course." Pestilence paused, and the silver crown on his brow gleamed in the moonlight. "Has
she
shown up?"

Death shook his head. "Not yet. But she will, no matter how much she wants to stay away. It's in her nature to cause trouble."

"Indeed." The White Rider inclined his head. "Until next time."

"Go thee out unto the world," Death intoned, granting his colleague the proper dismissal. And then he added, "And try to have some fun while you're at it."

Pestilence rolled his eyes. Yes, Death was very weird.

***

"For the last time," Lisa growled, "I'm fine. Let's go to the stupid movie."

"You're
not
fine." James wasn't yelling exactly, but he wasn't talking in his normal laid-back voice, either. They sat in his car, still in the parking spot outside the diner, fighting over whether she should go home. "You just vomited in the bathroom."

"Something I ate didn't agree with me," she said for the third time.

"Yeah." He looked at her, his eyes searching, his mouth pressed into a grim line. "You said."

She couldn't take his silent judgment. "What?"

"You tell me, Leese. You barely eat, and then when you do eat something, you run to the bathroom to puke. What do
you
think?"

"I think," she said tightly, her teeth clenched, "I have a stomach bug or something."

"Or something." He stopped talking as he regarded her, his gaze burning, even though his eyes were sad.

"
What?
Come on, James. Tell me what you're thinking."

He looked away from her, staring straight ahead, not answering her.

Frustrated, Lisa mimicked his posture, staring vacantly through the windshield. Outside, kids meandered in the parking lot, chatting and laughing and high-fiving, all so natural, so easy. None of them had to gird themselves as if for war when they stepped outside, making sure they were fortified with control techniques and visions of perfection to keep them motivated and sane. None of them understood how dangerous it was to be around food, to wage a constant battle of willpower—and how easy it would be to just surrender and lose oneself completely. No, they were blind, and deaf, and they parroted the latest lines from the latest magazines, all full of promises of health and beauty and attractiveness.

All stuffed with lies.

When James finally spoke, his voice was both soft and hard, quiet and yet terribly firm. "Are you bulimic?"

The question so startled her that she let out a laugh. Her? Bulimic? She couldn't even manage to stick her fingers down her throat. "No, of course not. That's just gross." Yes, that too.

He turned to face her, and she noticed the worry line nestled between his brows. "You promise me? You really just had to puke before because, what, something disagreed with you?"

"Promise." Really, it was sort of sweet how concerned he was. She smiled broadly, and never mind how it hurt her cheeks. "I'm okay. Maybe I'm coming down with something. That's probably why I've been so tired, and now with what just happened at the diner..." Her mind fixed on the ashes on her plate, but she pushed that thought away. "I'm probably getting the flu."