Wicked Hungry

I open the door. “Oh,” I say. “Hey.”

She just stares at me. I smile at her, waiting for her to smile back, but she just keeps looking at me with the same blank stare. “What?” I say. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

“Well, come on in, then.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Outside.”

I walk outside with her into the cold, pulling on a sweater. It’s cloudy and cool and for once I don’t feel the pull of the moon. I’m almost wishing for more overcast weather.

“You going to tell me what’s the matter?” I ask her. “Or you want another hug?”

“It’s not what I want that matters, not anymore, Stanley. Zach was right. Something’s wrong. Really wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Can you stop talking in riddles? It’s cold out here. Tell me what’s going on.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been getting these migraines, whenever I go out in the sun. I mean, I never had one before. I go outside now, in the sun, I even let the sun in through my window, and boom—my head is splitting, all I want to do is scream; it’s like my head is exploding. Like the sun is killing me.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Sure. Mom took me to Dr. Cooper. He just smiled and told me to wear sunglasses, but I can tell they think I’m crazy. But I’m not. I just wanted you to know that.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Karen,” I say. “But you should get help.”

“That’s what Zach said,” she says. “But he just made things worse. Those pills of his didn’t solve anything...”

“You sure you don’t want that hug?”

She bites into her fingernail, refuses to look me in the eye. “I don’t think I could handle a hug right now. I’m not even sure I deserve one right now.”

“Look,” I say. “It’s like, nine o’clock? Nine thirty? Maybe you should get some sleep.”

She snorts. “Sleep? I wish I could.” She chews at her fingernail. “And that’s not all. I mean, what is the matter with me? I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, but I don’t know what I’m craving. Everything I eat disgusts me. I’m throwing up all the time, and my mom thinks I’m bulimic.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She tears savagely into her nail.

“Ouch,” she says. “Now look what you made me do.”

She’s torn it, and her finger is bleeding.

How do I know she’s bleeding, there in the twilight?

Because I can smell it. Smell the coppery tangy sweetness. Forget Karen; what’s the matter with me?

“You okay?” I ask her.

“It’s fine. Jus

t forget it.”

She sticks her finger in her mouth.

Then she gasps. “No,” I hear her whimper. “No, this is so not happening.”

“What?” I say. Is her finger bleeding worse than I thought?