Wicked Hunger

Wicked Hunger Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Rules

I hurry away from the cafeteria in search of peace and quiet. That means my Home Economics class, a passion I owe to Grandma. A professional chef in her younger years, her mouthwatering dishes made me fall in love with cooking the first time I tasted a piece of her Black Forest cake.

I scurry into class, being sure to stay well away from Simon Dale and the hunger he inspires. After what I just experienced with Ivy, I can’t handle any more temptations. Years of practice avoiding Simon lets me move past him quickly and reach my work table. I huddle in my seat, glad to be away from Ivy. I’m sure I surprised everyone by bolting up from the table before she could ask questions, but I don’t care. I needed to get away from her.

Soaking up the calming scents and flavors of the room, I sit quietly with my eyes closed in hopes of blocking everyone else out. A sudden, fiery flash of hunger snaps my eyes open. My sanctuary has just been tainted pink and black.

Ivy stands before me looking rather smug, but feigning politeness. “Um,” she starts, “is it okay if I sit here? I didn’t see any other tables open, but if you already have a partner …”

“Nope,” I say, sounding sharper than I would have liked. “I usually work alone.”

Sitting down next to me, Ivy asks, “Why’s that?”

I look away, not interested in explaining anything to Ivy. Some kids go through high school as outcasts because of one idiotic reason or another. Lame clothes, not enough money, unfortunate physique or skin issues … the usual. I’m not one of those people. My status as untouchable is rightly deserved. It wouldn’t be the first time my hunger has gotten me into trouble. There’s no unfairness about it, just plain old common sense. Stay away from Van, stay alive. Simple as that.

Mrs. Huff starts class with her overly loud voice and squeaky dry erase marker as she writes out the instructions for today’s recipe on the board, repeating every word as if she thinks we aren’t capable of reading it ourselves. Everyone starts rummaging around in cabinets and gathering up supplies from the pantry. I get mine. Ivy gets hers. No talking necessary. If only our work areas were a little farther apart. Being only a few feet away from her, no matter how far I push my chair away, sets my teeth grinding with the effort to keep them in check.

 “So…did you really save Laney’s life?” She waits expectantly when her surprising question causes me to look up at her. I look away without answering, but she continues. “I mean, Laney told me you’d helped her out of a bad situation once, but she didn’t really go into details.”

I don’t respond.

“Laney’s pretty accident prone, but it sounded like it was something more than that, and she said it was a long time ago, like when you two were little, but how young could you have been, right? How many four-year-olds go around saving people’s lives?”

Five-year-olds, actually. But I don’t say that out loud.

Ivy waits expectantly. She can keep waiting all she wants.

After a few minutes, she finally seems to realize I’m not interested in sharing. She goes back to preparing ingredients for the recipe without voicing any more questions. Outwardly, she seems perfectly absorbed in her work, but a hint of irritation lines her features.

Clearly, Ketchup’s mentioning of the stories has her interest piqued, but she seems to already know something about Laney’s story. Her irritation about not hearing the rest seems unjustified, which makes me wonder. Laney wouldn’t give away what really happened—not only because she’s a true friend, but because she knows anyone she tried to tell would think she had cracked like Humpty Dumpty and she’d be sent off to try and put her head back together again.