American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 121

103
FICTION

with empty lots blurred by, car dealerships with their lights blistering bright, the condos that had replaced Shenanigans. They faded
into black woods, out where Jack lived, where there were only large
homes tucked into the hills, only the occasional church or gas station attending the roadside.
“So, what have you been up to?” I said.
“Thinking about you mostly,” he said.
He put his hand on my thigh.
“Really?” I said.
“Why? What else would I be thinking about?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How’s soccer camp?”
“It’s been so hot, you wouldn’t believe. Rick Devins fainted. But
then he went to the nurse, and he was fine.”
“Wow,” I said. “That sucks.”
At the entrance to the community where Jack lived was the
vegetable stand that sold produce grown on the property. A wooden
sign posted at the edge of the driveway read, “Gone Sleepin’.” We
drove uphill, where a planned community looked out over the land.
At the pinnacle was Jack’s house, a three-story building with a wide
porch and lush surrounding trees. Light shined from the kitchen
window and, as we pulled in, I could see Mrs. Larkin leaning over
the sink, the long braid she always wore dangling in front of her
like soft rope.
“My mom stayed up to say hi,” Jack said.
The kitchen smelled like sweetness and spice. “Who’s this skinny
lady?” Mrs. Larkin said, and hugged me tight. “Are you hungry? I
made soup because I thought you were coming for dinner.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I got held up.”
“No sorry,” she said.
She went to the stove and ladled some soup into a mug and
handed it to me with a straw. “Still hot,” she said. The broth was
golden in color, and creamy. I sucked the straw and felt warmth
spread from my belly to my limbs.
“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” Mrs. Larkin said, “not
being able to eat real food. If it were me, I’d go crazy. How are you
doing with everything? We’ve missed you.”