Wicked Hunger

Wicked Hunger Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Carte Blanche

Everything after lunch is a blur. I don’t speak to Ivy or Noah. I know I won’t get the chance to confront Zander until I get home from work tonight, so I force myself to focus on going to the senior center with Ketchup after school. A quick text message to Grandma explaining my plans to “volunteer” are met with happy approval. I, on the other hand, am sick just thinking about it. What if Ketchup is right?

It is with trepidation that I cross the parking lot to Ketchup’s car after school. When I finally make it to him, his subdued demeanor lowers my eyes.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod and slip into his SUV. The drive is quiet at first. After about ten minutes, I can’t stand it anymore. “Ketchup, I’m sorry about earlier.”

When he looks over at me, his smile is faint, but genuine. “You don’t have to be sorry about anything. I had no right to act the way I did. Forgive me?”

“I don’t need to. I’m the one …”

“Van,” he interrupts, “I know this situation sucks. I don’t understand it, at all, but I want you to know I’m here for you, no matter what. Nothing else needs to be said right now.”

I have the feeling what he means by that last line is that he doesn’t want to talk about me hanging out with Noah anymore. There are still plenty of things that need to be said—mainly me apologizing for being such a horrible friend to him. But I don’t say anything else. I should make myself pull away from him, quit torturing him. It’s the right thing to do, but I can’t. Deep down, I cannot get rid of the hope that one day things will change and I can live the life I want, with the person I want. Ketchup must feel the same. The sense of relief that settles around me may be false, but I hold it close until we pull up to the senior center.

We walk in together, with Ketchup greeting friends of his late grandfather and me following along behind, not sure whether or not this is going to work. Ketchup leads me deeper into the center. He pauses at a plain wooden door. Even with it closed, I can hear voices, several men arguing.

“This is the unofficial ‘Vets Room,’” Ketchup says. “I’ve known these guys a long time. I’ve heard their stories dozens of times. All three of them served in the front lines in Vietnam. They’ve never talked much about the actual killing they did, but they’ve talked about what it was like over there. If you’re right about what the weird taste means, these guys should cause the same effect.”

“But what if it doesn’t? Even around Zander it doesn’t happen all the time.”

Ketchup puts his arms around my shoulder and reaches for the door knob. “Then we’ll come back again, just to make sure. We’ll come back as many times as it takes, okay?”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Ketchup opens the door and I brace myself. I even find myself holding my breath until I can’t stand it anymore and breathe. When I do, the air smells faintly of tobacco and arthritis cream, but that’s it. I’m pulled out of my contemplation when I am poked with a cane. I jump back at the hard nudge and glance over at the source.

“Who’s this pretty little thing?” a wrinkled old man asks.

Ketchup grins at his elderly friend. “This is my friend, Van.”

“Van?” one of the others hollers. “What kind of name is Van?”

“It’s short for Vanessa,” I offer. The old man scowls at me. I try not to laugh.

Not wanting to be the center of attention, I tug Ketchup toward a couch. He follows with a smile, asking the three gentlemen how they’re doing. That inspires a whole round of complaining from each of them. Ketchup takes it all in gracefully. When they are done complaining about aches and the complicated nature of Medicare, their interest turns back to me.