Cures for Hunger by Deni Béchard Page A

and stopped, my rapid breath misting, the smoldering center of the fire a red eye. I couldn’t see him. Sparks rushed up through the chill air, planing as they cooled and died. When the wind shifted, the heat warmed my face.
    He called my name.
    Fear released from my chest, and I continued over the baked earth. He was just beyond the fire, his arms crossed, and I stood next to him.
    â€œShe’s upset,” he told me.
    I made myself appear as calm as possible, and I was proud of how I stood next to him and watched the fire, asking matter-of-factly, “What are we going to do?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said, as if he might want my advice. “Maybe we can all go on a trip. Sometimes, when you go on a trip and come back, things are better. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
    I pictured this, a long journey, days and days looking out the window at trees and mountains, and then him saying, “This is far enough.” We’d turn around and return, ready to start over. But would he change?
    Firelight shone on his cheekbones but hid his eyes, and though I worried that he might tell me to go back inside, he didn’t.

    â€œThings will be better,” he said, and in his voice I heard my mother’s, the sadness and uncertainty and fear, and I knew that something had changed.
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    I lost track of the days. I read or played Dungeons & Dragons with my brother, my fears vanishing like fish descending through a dark current.
    One night I fell asleep reading on the couch and I heard my parents come in the front door after arguing. They walked into the living room, and I didn’t open my eyes. I sensed them above me, looking down, silent as if surprised that I existed. My mother said she’d take me to my bedroom, but my father told her that he’d do it. He lifted me, my cheek against the coarse fabric of his shirt, my arm hanging. I could have opened my eyes and said I’d walk, but I sensed in his gentleness that he wanted to carry me. I breathed the odors in his shirt, pine sap and coffee, gasoline and sweat, but I felt no comfort. My heart didn’t slow. I didn’t drift asleep in this safety. I watched, starting to get angry, surprised to be this little boy, one arm folded against his chest. I felt like I was remembering, as if this moment were a photograph and I were seeing how things had once been.
    After he’d closed the door, I turned on my lamp and read. It was the only way to feel calm. In the novel, kingdoms clashed, and at some point I dozed and was swinging a sword at faceless, blurring enemies until I sensed danger and turned, a dark shape closing in. I woke, gasping, then lay awake until the sun rose.
    At my new school, I jostled through the morning crowd, kids turning and saying, “Hey, watch it!” I fell asleep in class. I forgot my homework. When kids talked about the presents Santa had brought them, I said Santa didn’t exist. “Only babies believe in Santa,” I told them. “Get over it.”
    A girl began to cry. I heard someone say he hated the new kid.
    During recess, I explored the sprawling grounds. I despised everyone. I couldn’t talk to others without wanting to hurt their feelings. As I turned the corner, five boys appeared before me.
    â€œHey, it’s the new kid,” Tom said. He was in my class, tall and blond, his bangs neatly brushed back.

    The kids formed a half circle and began closing in.
    Years ago, when I started first grade, my father had given me talks about fighting, as if I weren’t heading off to elementary school but to become a mercenary. He’d warned me never to show fear and said that I should terrify my enemies.
    â€œFuck you, dog-shit-faced cocksuckers!” I howled.
    The boys backed away, but Tom broke from them and ran forward and kicked me in the balls. I dropped to my knees, the air gusting from my lungs.
    â€œRun!” he shouted to his friends.