Hunger

Rory: Seth's Secrets

Seth remembers. I have no idea what Austin means by that; he said he could "just tell". As I head up to my room alone, I'm lost in thought about the possibility. Why would Seth keep the truth to himself when there's a chance his kidnappers could be brought to justice? Why feign amnesia? And most importantly: what happened to him?

Before he left, Austin neatly rolled up the sleeping bag and the air mattress in my room, setting them in front of the closet. I look at them, the only signs that he and Pixie were ever here, and sigh heavily. I can't figure out why he wouldn't just stay here. I think about them out there sleeping in a van, and my chest clenches with worry. Pixie's fever broke, and she's on the mend from the penicillin shot, but Austin was still limping around and breathing funny when he left.

I don't know how he's planning to take care of them, but his stubborn pride won't be enough. I wish he had a cellphone so I could have some way to get in touch with him other than waiting behind my register and just hoping he'll show up.

Just before I head to bed, I decide to find Seth and try for once to have an actual conversation with him. Maybe I'll see what Austin saw. His room is locked. I knock on the door and try to fight back panic as I wait and wait and wait for him to open it or even respond. Did he run away? Kill himself in there? I can't help imagining all the horrible scenarios that might lie behind this closed door.

Then, finally, his voice: "Alright, I'm coming! Chill out."

When he opens the door, I'm greeted by a cloud of smoke. Pot smoke. I cough, waving my hand in front of my face.

"Thought you were Dad," he mumbles.

"You're smoking pot in here?" I ask.

"Please don't tell Dad," he says.

When he looks at me like this, it's like he's a little kid again. His baby blue eyes are so big. I'm suddenly nine years old, standing in front of a pile of broken plates. Seth had taken every single one of our plates out of the kitchen cabinets and smashed them to pieces in the backyard. No clue why. He was manic, his eyes blazing. "Please don't tell Dad," he'd said with his five year old lisp. I couldn't deny him then, and I can't deny him now.

"You owe me," I say, "So you gonna share?"

Seth smiles slowly. "Seriously? You smoke?"

"Not regularly, but I have at parties and stuff. Why are you so surprised?"

"It's like... you're this little goodie-two-shoes. Dad's golden child," he says bitterly.

I laugh. "It's called acting. Try it sometime. Things might go easier for you."

Seth stands aside so I can walk into his bedroom. After he disappeared, we kept it exactly the same: Batman poster, shelves full of toy cars, swords, and action figures, Buzz Lightyear bedspread. Now everything looks so out of place in the hazy pot cloud hanging in the air. Seth looks out of place: an angry teenager with red eyes standing in a lost little boy's room.

He flops down onto his unmade bed and passes me a small bag of weed.

"It's shitty. Definitely no Sinsemilla, you know?" he says.

"No. I don't know. How do you know the difference between this and whatever the fuck Sinsemilla is? Are you, like, a pot connoisseur now? How much do you even smoke?"

"It's a Spanish word," he mumbles.

"What is?"

"Sinsemilla. It means it has no seeds. Sin means without. Semilla means seed."