Kids of Appetite by David Arnold Page A

of fiery things, and icy things too, things that bubbled and boiled and popped, things that begged for liberation.
    â€œMom and Dad started dating in high school,” I said. “Got married in college.”
    I needed to be empty.
    I needed someone to pour me out.
    â€œThey always said, ‘We fell in love silly young.’ And I really miss that, you know?”
    I looked around the table. None of them seemed fazed, which made me want to give my bubbles and anger to these kids who would listen, kids who would finally fucking listen and see me for me, and not some statue on a street corner, holding a sign that says,
Look at me, don’t look at me, look at me, don’t look at me
, over and over, but it’s never over; it goes on forever, this desire to be both seen and unseen.
    â€œMom and Dad had all these sayings, all these sentences only they understood.
Till we’re old-new
. I have no idea what that means.” I was crying now—rare, but not impossible. I relished the moisture, and thought,
Yes, this makes sense.
Get it out, get it all out with the lava and the champagne. Liberate all things. “There are times when I think I knewhim better than anybody, and then times when I feel I never knew him at all. And now it’s too late. And he . . .
fucking
promised
me”—I shook myself up until the cap popped off,
fizz, fizz, bubble, bubble, pop
, take a breath now—“when I was little, Dad promised he’d never leave. He taught me how to think with my heart, how to hear the whispers—the really mean ones—how to take those and make myself stronger, how to be a Super Racehorse, and not some silly sideways hug. Well, how is he supposed to do all that when he’s dead?” I grabbed a nearby napkin, wiped the liberation from my face. “And now the whole stupid world has moved on, including my mom, who I barely even recognize.”
    . . .
    . . .
    . . .
    Say it.
    I am Northern Dancer, sire of the century, the superest of all racehorses.
    . . .
    Do it.
    . . .
    â€œDad died of pancreatic cancer.”
    . . .
    Five words I’d never said before.
    The first two were the only ones that mattered.
    . . .
    â€œHe died two years ago.” Again, the first two words rendered the others pretty impotent. “Mom just got engaged. To someone who thinks Tolstoy wrote
The Brothers Karamazov
.”
    . . .
    . . .
    â€œHe didn’t write it?” asked Coco.
    The table breathed for the first time in what seemed like hours. I looked at Coco, tried to smile with my eyes, but I couldn’t be sure it worked. “No, Coco. He didn’t.”
    Coco nodded in a very serious manner.
    I looked across the table at Baz. “Yesterday I took the urn and ran. I was going to scatter him in the river, but then I found the note and the photo. I can’t go home. Not until I see this through.”
    . . .
    â€œDo you remember my first question?” asked Baz.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you remember your answer?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSay it again,” he said.
    â€œI need help.”
    â€œAnd again.”
    â€œI need help.”
    â€œAnd once more.”
    I hoped Baz could see the smile in my eyes; I certainly saw the one in his.
    â€œI need help, Baz.”
    â€œAnd we will help you, friend.”
    Friend
.
    What a beautiful word.
    Suddenly Singapore didn’t feel so far away.

MAD
    Baz carefully removed the top of the bun from his burger, then the bottom, setting them both on the side of his plate. He ate meat; he ate veggies; occasionally, if Coco fell asleep before finishing her ice cream (so
very
occasionally), he would eat her leftovers. But never bread.
    â€œYou watching your carbs?” asked Vic.
    â€œBaz is anti-bread,” I said, rolling my eyes.
    â€œAnti-bread?”
    I nodded. “He is against bread.”
    Vic looked back at Baz. “I