Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

you’d be dead already. My hand shifted to my stomach as if the kid was still in there, waiting to eat me from the inside out like a fleshy Pacman.

The woman and her son disappeared with Ms. LaPorte into the communal bathroom. I trembled all the way to the kitchen. Deep breaths, Hannah. Deep breaths.

I ladled chili into bowls and placed them on the counter, trying to still my shaking hands by repeating to myself, “I’m not cold, I’m just a little chili,” but the mantra helped very little. When all had been served, the women sat and talked amongst themselves in solemn camaraderie connected by an unspoken need for peace. They were almost friends; the pain they shared a tenuous alliance that still left them disconnected enough to feel lonely.

I understood. In high school, I’d hung out with an eclectic mix of misfits: Marianne with her sausage arms and cherry red eyeglasses, Jillian with her flaming orange hair, and Monique who wore long sleeves in the summer and a smile even when her eyes were bloodshot. All of us had been hurting, but hiding it, while we tried to belong somewhere. The best thing we had going was when I’d tell them the jokes my dad taught me.

“Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?” I would ask excitedly. “Because they taste funny!”

Thanks to my father, I also knew all the dirty jokes. Without other prospects for friendship, my mismatched group wouldn’t tell on me. But I still kept the nastiest ones to myself. The cleaner jokes I told with an air of conspiratorial secrecy.

“An airplane is about to crash, and a lady jumps up and says, ‘If I’m going to die, I want to die feeling like a woman,’ and takes off all her clothes.”

I would pause, gauging how effective the joke was by the vibrancy of Jillian’s cheeks.

“When she’s naked, she says, ‘Is there someone on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?’ A man stands up, removes his shirt and says, ‘Here, iron this!’”

Their giggles always made me smile. But our relationships were as fragile as those in the dining room now, especially since we never saw each other outside of school. These women would never see one another again. Did they have someone at home like I did back then? When my mother put in extra hours at the dentist’s office where she worked, I at least had my father to play Monopoly with, though he never gave me any indication I was good at the game.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. You’re just not quite smart enough,” he would say, and I would nod, sure he was right. And when I would admit my hurt over never seeing my friends outside of school, he would smile knowingly and put his arm around me. “I understand, honey, but no one can ever really love you the way I do. You don’t need anyone else but your old man.”

And I would giggle and tell him that he wasn’t old. It was also true that his protection and love would never have an equal. My friends did not appreciate me the way he did, and the rest of the school didn’t even know I was there at all. So I would throw my arms around him and kiss him, vowing never to disappoint him.

It was a vow I had broken. Terribly. Irreparably. But I had real friends now, or at least one.

I should get Noelle a present. Maybe new earrings. She had been there for me from the day she started at Harwick Technical Solutions. She’d probably even listen if I ever got the guts to talk to her about anything important. Friends mattered, even when they had awesome torpedo tits and hated puns.

I watched as the women pushed aside their trays, cold, faraway expressions barely disguising the hopelessness they probably felt at the thought of leaving the shelter, or maybe at the thought of leaving their mates.

They weren’t good enough. They had disappointed someone. Probably themselves.

I grabbed a rag and attacked the counter. I will not turn into this.

Driving from the shelter to my apartment was usually the most relaxing twenty minutes of my day. In fifteen miles, downtown caved to suburbia, with libraries and apartments across the street from professional buildings, all decorated with only moderate amounts of penis graffiti. Signs for gas stations and fast-food restaurants twinkled on either side of the road, the colors on the signs crisper than they’d been in the heat of summer when they had to compete with the fog of muggy air. I passed the comic book store. Lucky’s pizza. A cell phone repair shop. And there it was: the little apartment building that could.

Somewhere along the way, I’d gotten stuck in five stories of red brick, six units to a floor, a place that just about screamed “I’m here for now but not forever”— at least that was what I’d told myself when I moved in. The building sat on a residential street across from some kind of secondhand kiddie clothing store that I had never ventured into and probably never would. In the back, the parking lot bordered another road and yet another gas station. Because what city is complete without four gas stations per block?

I parked in the back and ran up the cement steps, the October air chilling my bones even after the heavy door had swung shut. The smell of onions and old socks permeated the stairwell and hallway on the third floor, much better than my pepper spray, but still gross. I hoped the smell wasn’t coming from my apartment.

The door latch clanked. On the television, tires shrieked, and a woman yelled something unintelligible. Steam rose from a pot on the stove.

“Hey, babe!” Jake said from the couch. “I was just going to make some of those noodles you bought the other day. I brought pasta sauce from my mom’s.”

I scanned the apartment, mildly concerned his mother might jump from behind a chair, howling like a banshee, dripping cigarette ash all over the carpet. I glanced at a burned spot on the rug. Like mother like son. “Thanks for starting the water. It’s been a long day.”

Jake nodded; his eyes on a reality show about wrestling crocodiles. A plume of smoke billowed from his nostrils. “Yeah, sure. Hey, I was talking to my mom, and she says we should move down by her after we get married.”

“We can’t afford to move right now, Jake.”

“Well, yeah, but one day we might be able to.” He didn’t raise his eyes from the screen.

“It takes time to move up at work,” I said to the back of his head. Plus, you could get a job, too. You know, like you’ve been promising to do for months.

“Yeah, I guess. Can you get the plates? I’m beat.”

I slid dry noodles into the water, poured the sauce into a pan, and set the table. Jake kept his gaze on the TV. I resisted the urge to hurl a plate at his skull. Sometimes I hated the way he acted, but having someone next to you made you harder to strangle; at least I assumed that was true. I stalked back to the kitchen to test the sauce. Hot, but store-bought.

Jake was at the table when I returned with the meal.

“Thanks, hon. I love you, ya know?”

“I love you, too.” I clutched my fork tighter than necessary.

He’s always been there for me, even when I was difficult and crazier than I am now. Maybe I should just agree to marry him and get it over with.

What was I waiting for, anyway?

Mr. Harwick’s smiling face popped into my head, telling me I was a great worker, helping me pick up the stuff from my purse. I tried to distract myself from the warmth in my lower body by shoveling pasta into my mouth.

I did the dishes alone, half listening to the murmur of Jake’s television program.

I love him. I need him.

The pasta did a nervous dance in my abdomen. Jake’s mother was probably trying to poison me. Very Snow White-ish except I didn’t have any knee-high friends to mine coal or help me with the goddamn dishes.

I dried the last dish and walked into the living room. My mouth was dry.

Jake stared at the screen.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

Prove it.

I sat and put my arms around him. He turned, gripped my shoulders, and pushed his mouth onto mine, prodding my tongue like an imbecilic iguana. His tongue tasted like stale cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon. I fought a gag and waited for a tingle, heat, something. I felt nothing. Not that I ever did. Not that I had any reason to expect better.

I wondered how much that case of beer had put me back.

When Jake came up for air, I pulled off his T-shirt and felt a twinge of guilt when Dominic’s face flashed in my mind again, helping me, complimenting me, smiling at my lame jokes… No, not Dominic. Mr. Harwick. I grabbed Jake harder.

I love him.

Jake pulled away and yanked at our clothes, tossing them into a pile on the floor. His member jutted from his body like a thick diving board. Well, not that thick. Let’s not get silly.

You’re going to poke someone’s eye out with that thing.

I wanted to giggle, but couldn’t because he was pulling my head toward his crotch. I tried to plaster on a seductive smile but only managed a muted sigh. Not that he would have noticed either way.

I bet Dominic would be better at this stuff.

Mickey Mouse would be better at this stuff.

Nothing sexier than bestiality.

Shut up, Hannah, and