Hunger

Prologue: Ghost Boy

March 2010
South Oklahoma City

The stench of the backpack was capable of knocking out anybody within a five foot radius. That was part of the reason it took so long for anyone to notice. Not many people at school got within five feet of me at eleven years old. I preferred being invisible.

That was why when I was called to the school counselor's office that day, my stomach clenched with panic. I had been to her office a few times this year for various reasons, all of them embarrassing; the lice incident, that day I didn't have a coat when the snowstorm blew through, and that time I didn't go on the field trip with everyone else because Mom hadn't signed the letter or paid the ten dollars. I had to spend the day watching Disney movies in there. Nothing good ever came out of being called to the counselor's office.

As I trudged slowly through the empty hallways of my fourth elementary school in five years, I began to think. I was catching on to the fact that people were starting to notice me, and not in a good way. The school nurse wanted to see me all the time, supposedly checking for lice, but she didn't just look in my hair; she wanted to look everywhere. It wasn't only at school either. Earlier this year people had started showing up at the house too; people in business suits who carried laptops and asked a bunch of weird questions. Mom always cleaned the house on those days, and Ray stayed away.

We moved so much because if we lived anywhere for longer than six months, these people would start poking around without fail. We had been living in the house with Mom's friends since school started, and it was March now. This was the longest I had ever lived anywhere. Something told me it was all about to come crashing down.

"Hi, Austin," said the counselor, Mrs. Moran, who was a tall, pretty lady with dark hair.

I just stared. I tried to talk to people, I really did, but it was like my mouth had forgotten how. When I attempted to speak, nothing came out about fifty percent of the time. But it never mattered much. Usually Mrs. Moran always did the talking anyway.

"I'd like to ask a favor," said Mrs. Moran, getting out of her chair and walking over to me.

I was frozen with my mouth making soft sputtering sounds, like a glitch, as Mrs. Moran came closer.

"I'd like to see your backpack real quick," she said.

I shrugged the backpack off my shoulders and handed it to her. I was not aware of the stench of the bag because my whole world reeked. The house I lived in was filthy. And as for myself, I did absolutely everything to avoid bathing, changing my underwear, brushing my teeth and washing my clothes. That was because the only person who demanded I get clean was Ray, which always meant something bad was going to happen to me later, so at some point I had stopped attempting personal hygiene unless Ray absolutely forced me.

"I'm going to look inside," said Mrs. Moran gently.

I tried to say no, but nothing came out, and she didn't see me shaking my head. All I could do was watch helplessly as she pulled out item after item: individual-sized milk cartons bulging with rot and threatening to explode, packets of brown goo that used to be fruit, chicken nuggets gone green and moldy pancakes still in their plastic wrap. About halfway through the bag, Mrs. Moran called a couple of people just before barfing into her desk trashcan. She did this with her back to me, but I knew what was happening, just like I knew she was also crying. She kept shaking her head and tearfully whispering, "You poor boy. You poor thing." Over and over.

More people came into the office. Even the school security officer who walked around at recess. My backpack was thoroughly searched, but nothing else was in it except the food, which got even grosser and more rotten at the bottom.