Wicked Hunger (2 page)

Ketchup stops, taps his finger against the side of his head, and says, “You know, I don’t think anyone remembers.”

“Really?” Ivy asks sarcastically.

He looks over at Laney and me for confirmation. We both shrug. Even the teachers know him as Ketchup. Ivy shakes her head.

“This has got to be the weirdest group of friends I’ve ever met. Two matching fashion catastrophes, my klutzy cousin, a guy named Ketchup, and a
…and Van. You guys are messed up.”

Ketchup and Laney both laugh at Ivy’s apt descriptions of everyone, but I’m left wondering what she was going to say about me. And a
what
? She can’t possible know anything about me. Right? People knowing is dangerous. She just thinks I’m strange, that’s all. I tell myself that, but for some reason, I don’t believe my own words.

Something seems off about this girl, though I can’t put my finger on why. I’m going to have to keep an eye on her, which is probably a bad idea given the hunger I am still struggling to control. Just thinking about subjecting myself to her presence again makes giving in that much more irresistible. My fingers grip the edges of my chair, clenching to the point of deforming the bumpy plastic seat.

I frantically try to calm myself back down. Breathing, stretching, counting down from one million. Sensing my need, Ketchup’s hand slides onto my knee and squeezes. My hunger instantly drops a few notches as I focus on his touch. No one else notices the contact, but it helps immensely. I try to banish the rest of my hunger by drinking in the ambient noise of the cafeteria and letting it momentarily numb my brain.

“So, how did you all end up becoming friends?” Ivy asks, her voice ratcheting up the hunger inside me. “You guys seem like a pretty odd combination, so there must be a good story behind it.”

Oh no. My insides squirm and twist in panic. My hand snaps down over Ketchup’s, begging for strength. I try to find my voice somewhere amid the aching need to hurt Ivy so I can stop anyone at the table from answering and giving her any more hints that there’s something wrong with me, but Ketchup is faster.

“Not just one story, but six very interesting stories. One for each of us.”

“But there’s only five of you here,” Ivy argues.

“You haven’t met Wyatt and Holly yet,” Laney pipes in.

“That’s seven.”

“There’s six, not including Van.”

“Why doesn’t Van get a story?”

“Because she’s in all of ours,” Ketchup says. “She’s the one who brought us all together.”

“How did she do that?” Ivy asks.

I want to stop him from saying anything. My rigid muscles won’t let me. All I can manage is to look over at her and see the heat of something I don’t understand held tight in her features as she waits for her answer.

Ketchup grins, sending my stomach down to the basement. “She saved our lives.”

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.

Laney knows about insanity, and where it’s housed, from being friends with me. She wouldn’t risk that, and telling her story would be a one way ticket to professional help. There’s no way Laney told her anything about what she’s seen me do. Could Ivy possibly know something about me? I don’t know how. I’m just some fifteen year old girl living quietly in the middle of the desert.

Except, I’m not.

It’s not exactly a secret that I’m a freak. That’s why no one sits with me in class. I’ve grown up through elementary school with a lot of these kids, but even the ones I’ve only known since we were all pooled into the same high school have heard the stories and know enough to stay away from me, even if they don’t actually know why.

But who am I kidding? I don’t even know why. I don’t understand the most basic part of who I am. My grandma tries to help, but even she is limited in what she knows. Her only knowledge comes from family legends passed down through generations of old coots mumbling scary bedtime stories to trembling little children. Half of what she’s told me sounds like total crap.

I carry the filled cookie sheet to the oven, relieved to have some distance from Ivy. I slide the tray in and step back to close the oven door without paying much attention. Someone smacks into the back of me, hard. My hands spring out in front of me, palms slapping into the hot racks and oven door.

The pain that bursts through my body kills, but rouses my hunger as well. It’s a battle between not reacting to the injury and lapping up the pain hungrily. Ivy, who is suddenly next to me, yanks me back from the oven. Her touch barely registers under the pain of my scorched flesh. My brain finally refocuses, and I push the oven door shut with my elbow, hoping desperately that no one saw what just happened. I shove my blistered hands down, out of sight before anyone can take notice.

My sigh of relief is interrupted by Mrs. Huff rushing over to us with a panicked expression. I guess I didn’t escape everyone’s notice. “Sorry,” I say quickly, “I wasn’t paying attention and I bumped into someone.”

My eyes dart around for whoever ran into me, but everyone else seems to be working quietly at their tables. A sick, angry feeling stabs at my insides. I turn back to look at Ivy, more suspicious than ever.

“Are you both okay?” Mrs. Huff asks, her eyes darting over us.

“Yeah,” I start to say, not taking my eyes off Ivy, but Ivy interrupts me.

“No, Van got burned! I saw her hands fall on the oven racks.” Ivy grabs for my hands, but I yank them behind my back before she can get me. I keep my eye on her for a second attempt and completely miss Mrs. Huff making the same move. She pulls my hands from behind my back and stares at them. Then she flips them over, and back. She touches my pink, perfect skin gently, then more forcefully.

“Looks fine to me,” she says with relief.

Ivy’s eyes pop open wide in disbelief. “What? I saw her touch the racks! They were both red and blistered!”

“Must’ve been the lighting. I stopped myself in time,” I say tightly. I tug my hands out of Mrs. Huff’s grip and start back to my table. Our teacher just shakes her head at Ivy and stalks back to the front of the classroom.

“I could have sworn
…”

Ivy falls silent as I start cleaning up the mess I made while mixing my cookie dough. She doesn’t say anything else, but the smug expression on Ivy’s face before she turns away stops me. What did that look mean? I’m sure she was the one who ran into me, and as I head out of Home Ec a few minutes later, I am even more convinced that it wasn’t an accident.

Ivy’s odd behavior follows me the rest of the day. I can’t remember a single thing any of my teachers talked about in my classes after Home Ec. All I can think about is the way Ivy looked like she had gotten what she wanted after seeing my hands unburned.

Could she have been trying to burn me just to see what would happen? That is beyond sick, but something is definitely not right about Ivy. She was so quick to point out that I’d been burned. Sure, she could have been genuinely concerned about me, I guess. Or was there another reason? Did she want someone else to witness that the injuries I had definitely sustained were already healed? She looked so satisfied when my hands were fine, despite her confusion and disbelief just a few moments earlier. She was acting. I’m just not sure which part was the act.

By the time I burst out of my last class and gather my books from my locker, I’m actively looking for Laney and her bizarre cousin. I need some help, some indication of whether or not I’m going crazy, and I know just who to turn to. I need Zander. I know I shouldn’t get him involved. Zander has been through enough over the last few years. Everything that happened nearly broke him, and it scared me to death.

I debate going to him for help as I walk away from my locker, but I’m positive he’ll pick up on any honest to goodness weirdness. Meeting my brother may give her an opportunity to sniff out a few more clues about us, but Zander is always so careful. She shouldn’t be any risk to him. Whatever this curse is, it doesn’t work like that. We don’t share meals. It’ll be fine. Zander will know if my reaction to her is something above normal. It may just be that I’m getting too close to my sixteenth birthday, but it might be something else.

When Laney and Ivy come down the hall toward me, I force myself to put on a somewhat friendly appearance. It’s the best I can manage in the face of the reaction she elicits from me. I take my place next to Laney when they reach me. That puts Ivy on Laney’s other side, away from me. Even still, it isn’t much of a buffer. My hunger still gnaws at me, so I step a little further away.

“Hey,” Laney says, “what time do you work today? Ivy and I wanted to go for ice cream. Wanna come?”

“Can’t. I’ve got class right after school today. It’s Monday and Wednesday I don’t go in until five,” I remind her.

Laney purses her lips. “I can never remember what days you teach what. I really need to write it down somewhere.”

“If you tried coming to a class, maybe you’d remember.”

Her snorting laugh startles Ivy. “Yeah, right. You just want me to come so you can laugh at me.”

“Everyone laughs at you, anyway,” Ketchups says as he catches up to us. Laney rolls her eyes. He ignores her and slings his arm around my shoulder. Normally, I would throw it back off, but the comfort of having him next to me helps with my hunger.

Ketchup was obviously expecting my rebuff, and when it doesn’t happen he looks down at me with a frown. I try to avoid making eye contact. That’s not very easy when it comes to Ketchup. His jet black hair, baby blues, and general Superman-lookalike quality makes it hard not to stare. I meet his concerned eyes and he sees the turmoil raging inside of me.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

No. But I can’t explain this to him. Ketchup is always there for me, no matter what, but he has no idea what is really behind my strange abilities and disconcerting mood swings. I shrug and look away, wishing Zander wasn’t right, wishing I could tell Ketchup everything.

“What do you teach?” Ivy asks, her eyes focused on Ketchup and his arm around my shoulders. Her scrutiny almost makes me push Ketchup away, but the hunger keeps me from listening.

“Hip hop and ballet,” I say, hoping it will distract her from Ketchup.

It does.

I watch as her eyes take in the surprise of me being in anyway rhythmically inclined. That’s the reaction I usually get. People who don’t know me well think I’m a moody, dark teenager. I’m really just trying not to kill them.

Ketchup takes offense to Ivy’s disbelief. “Van’s a great dancer. Best in her class.”

A small smile creeps onto my lips. I snuggle into Ketchup’s embrace for a brief moment before remembering myself and putting a little distance between us. Ketchup frowns, but doesn’t comment, given that I still haven’t pushed his arm away.

“Where do you teach?” Ivy asks as we head to the parking lot.

“All Star Dance, over on Candelaria. It’s not a very big studio, but we compete all over the state. It’s a lot of fun.” I smile honestly for the first time today. Dancing is more than fun, it’s my only release. It is the only time I get to take hold of my emotions and hunger and channel them into something beautiful. I can hide everything that is wrong with me when I dance.

Ivy’s mouth turns up along with mine. “I used to dance. I haven’t taken a class in a couple of years, but I’ve wanted to get back into it. Maybe I’ll try out one of your classes.”

“Yeah
…great,” I say, trying to hold onto my smile. The last thing I want is her ruining my hunger-free time.

Ketchup’s arm tightens around my shoulder. “I’ve gotta go pick up my brother. See you tomorrow.”

Laney and Ivy mumble their goodbyes, but I panic. My sudden stiffness gives Ketchup pause. He turns just enough to get away from Laney and Ivy. His voice is filled with concern as he asks again, “Is everything okay?”