Wicked Hungry

“You can take one home,” I say.

Karen shakes her head. “My mom doesn’t allow fast food in the house. I’ll have to throw it out. You don’t want me to waste this food, do you?”

She holds up the second Whopper. It’s still wrapped. Warm. My hands move before I can say anything and snatch it from her open hand.

Do I need to tell you that biting into my very own Whopper is like coming home to a home I’ve never had, but where I really belong? My stomach settles, but my senses are in overdrive, and my mind is a mess.

If meat is murder, then why does it taste so good?

But that’s not all that’s running through my head. As much as I try to concentrate on the forbidden meat that’s entering my body, my mind keeps coming back to Zach and his supplements. Or, really, to the important question: Could they help my knee?

Chapter 3: MOWING THE LAWN

You ever wake up and find coarse, dark hair all over your chest?

And not just on my chest. In all kinds of embarrassing places. Ugh.

That was a new one for me, this morning. Is the moon playing more tricks on me, or am I growing up? Or just growing hairy?

My teeth ache and feel loose in my mouth. Like I’m going to lose them and get my permanent teeth.

Except these are my permanent teeth. Should I go to the dentist? What would he say? That he can’t figure out what’s wrong with me? Or would he see right through me, and know that I’m a little lunatic, going through puberty?

My mom sees me pushing my cereal around the bowl at breakfast instead of eating it. Really, organic Weetabix is not what I’m craving this morning. But how can I begin to explain that to her?

“Stanley? Are you okay?”

I nod. “Just not hungry, I guess.”

For what’s in my bowl, that is.

“I found...some disturbing signs.”

She looks at me, but she doesn’t even look me in the eye. I see her biting her lip. Is she afraid of me? Or afraid for me?

“What, Mom?” I ask her. “What did you find?”

“Hair. A lot of it, in the shower.”

“Mom, gross,” I say, “And I mean, privacy?”

“And your toothbrush—”

“I need a new one, I know,” I say.

She shakes her head. “No, Stanley. It was all bloody.”

“I think I’m cutting a tooth,” I say.

“At fourteen?”

“Maybe I’m a late bloomer. Or maybe wisdom teeth?”

“We need to take you to see someone,” she says. “I’ve been trying to hold this off, but I can’t ignore it any longer.”

“Mom, no dentist is going to understand this.”

“I’m not talking about a dentist, Stanley. Give me some credit.”