She was so close to giving in to Ketchup. The brazen desire in her eyes was almost enough to convince me she should. To me, it seems like Noah is a distraction, and her talking about him so much is pure desperation. Whether I’m right or not, she seems determined to keep hanging out with Noah.
This has gone on for long enough.
In reality, I don’t think she feels anything more for Noah than curiosity, but if I let this go on much longer it may turn into another Ketchup situation. If I burn Van twice, she’ll never forgive me. So, I rush to change into something more comfortable and hurry downstairs. I make it down before Van even finishes fixing her hair into a ponytail. Noah isn’t due to show up for another half hour, giving me enough time to slip into the kitchen where my grandma is working. Two rectangles of puff pastry are thawing on the counter. I look from the pastry to my grandma. She notices my staring and grimaces.
“Premade puff pastry? Is the world coming to an end?”
She shoos me away from the counter. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to make puff pastry from scratch? Too long. I have to be at Martha’s house in two hours. I don’t have time to layer dough and butter and run it through rollers a couple dozen times. These won’t be nearly as good as mine, but they’ll have to do.”
“I’m sure they’ll be great,” I say, patting her shoulder. She looks over at me, with a curious expression.
“You’re in a good mood.”
Not that I blame her for noticing, but I’d rather avoid the topic of Ivy with her. I’ve seen Ivy the last couple of weekends, and she’s kept her questions to less personal topics since the first game, but everyone was walking on eggshells around me for about a week after Ivy asked me about my parents and what else I was hiding. Having to talk about the day they died brought up too many unpleasant memories. For days, all I could see when I closed my eyes was the image of Oscar sitting on the couch staring at the blood on his hands, rocking back and forth and mumbling.
It took a week of Ivy asking me the most trivial string of questions every time we saw each other to finally relax. Well, about the memories, anyway. My hunger is still continuing to get worse. I don’t understand why. I keep trying to figure it out with no luck. The increasing hunger and the knowledge that harder questions are going to come back up with Ivy at some point have kept me from enjoying the reprieve too much.
The time I’ve spent around Ivy the last few weeks has been bittersweet, though, and not wholly because of the hunger. The image of Van about to kiss Ketchup, that look of complete happiness, has haunted me. It is because of me that she holds back, and I don’t know if I can ever fix that. I know she holds out hope that the situation will change. I do too, but the only changes that seem to happen are the kind that makes things worse.
When I first realized my hunger wanted Ketchup, I was on the verge of turning sixteen. My ability to control myself was becoming more fragile by the day. She had to keep him away from me. I thought after my hunger evened out things could be different. But that was when Oscar was there. He could be there to keep Van healthy if I couldn’t.
When Oscar started disappearing for days at a time, frustrated and angry at Mom and Dad and pretty much everything, I was the only option. Oscar coming back didn’t help anyone. Van and I needed each other then. There was no room for anyone else. With Van’s birthday coming up, it’s even more important that we’re together. I want to believe I’ll get used to Ketchup and the right situation will finally present itself, but I honestly don’t know if that will ever come. Regardless of my disbelief, I will keep trying to give my baby sister what she wants more than anything.
Coming back to the conversation with my grandma, I say, “It’s been a good week.”
My grandma’s smile is tight, no doubt thinking about my time spent with Ivy. I know she’s dying to make a comment, but she doesn’t.
“Hey, you don’t need me for anything this afternoon, do you?” I ask.
“No, why?”
“I think I’m going to tag along with Van and Noah this afternoon.”
“To the gym?” she asks. “Don’t you get enough of a workout with football?”
I shrug. “It’s not really the workout. I think it’s time I get to know Noah a little better.”
“Now that I can agree with. I don’t like how he never comes in. It seems sneaky.” Her eyes narrow just thinking about it.
“He’s not being sneaky. He’s being smart. Or Van is. She isn’t sure how I’ll react to him.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding. Her eyes drift to the kitchen window. It has a clear view of the driveway. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
I smile my thanks and head back to the living room to wait. It seems to take forever, but eventually, I hear the rumble of Noah’s car pulling up. Two seconds later, Van comes bounding down the stairs. Her happy mood falters when she sees me standing at the door. Noah knocks. Her head shakes briskly in fear. I turn the knob and pull it open anyway, bracing myself for any hint of my hunger.
When I open my door, the only reaction I have to Noah’s overzealous grin is a desire to smack him. My hunger stays neatly tucked away. I’m the only one who knows that, though. No sounds come from the kitchen at all. Van isn’t even breathing, and Noah’s stupid smile is slowly sliding off his face. Just because I can, I wait a moment longer, screwing my face into an expression of deep scrutiny. I expect Noah to cringe, stutter something incomprehensible, run maybe.
He doesn’t do any of those things. He stands stock still, but holds his composure, and extends his hand to me. “Hey, Zander, I’m Noah Harbach. Nice to finally meet you.”
When I pause a moment longer, I finally catch sight of some evidence of fear from him. His hand shakes very slightly. I haven’t passed judgment on him yet, but I do decide to give him a break. I take his hand firmly and shake it. “Nice to meet you, Noah.”
He sighs with relief. “Is Van here?”
“Yeah.”
I turn so he can see Van behind me. She isn’t looking at him, though. Her eyes are targeted at me. Her question is clear. A quick shake of my head turns her fearful expression into a sigh of relief. My grandma pops into the hall then, smiling and introducing herself. After a quick round of getting to know you, she excuses herself and leaves the three of us staring at each other again.
“So, Noah,” I say after my grandma is out of earshot, “Van’s been telling me about your workouts, how much she’s enjoying them. She mentioned that I might like to try for myself, and I was wondering if you’d mind if I came along today and gave it a try.”
Noah’s eyes widen, but he says, “Uh, sure. If that’s okay with Van.” He looks over at her. My sister glances over at me, searching me for any sign of deceit. When she doesn’t find any, she nods her consent. Noah turns back to me. “Okay then. You want to ride with us, or follow in your truck.”
“Follow,” I say. I wanted to meet this guy and make sure Van is handling the martial arts okay. I really don’t need any more guilt about this situation than I already have. Plus, I have plans later. I can’t meet with Ivy today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t see her.
With the driving arrangements taken care of, we all head out. Instead of driving to the gym Van has mentioned several times, I follow Noah to a park deep in an upper class neighborhood. Despite its impeccable appearance, it’s deserted. I guess rich people don’t spend much time at parks. When I get out of my truck, I watch as Van helps Noah lug a big black bag out of his trunk. She pretends to struggle with it, and he shoulders the bulky bag easily.
“So what happened to the gym?” I ask as I fall in beside them.
“Oh, well the gym is only open from noon to five on Saturdays, and since Van’s been busy the last couple weekends, we haven’t been able to make the session. So we found this quiet park instead. Nobody ever comes here, so it’s the perfect place to practice.” Noah drops the bag and starts pulling out punching mitts and blocking pads. He works to set out the equipment, but instead o
f helping him, Van walks over to me.
“Are you going to be okay with this?” she asks, her voice low.
“I’ll be fine, Van. It’s the same basic idea behind us playing sports. Football can be just as violent as any martial arts.” I look at her pointedly. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
“I’ve been doing this for a while now. I’ll be fine. Just watch. You and Grandma always think I can’t handle things, but I can.”
She turns away to face Noah. He already has mitts strapped to his hands with his feet slightly apart to give him a strong base. I watch silently as he runs Van through a series of drills, explaining each movement to me as she does them. For the most part, Van keeps her punches and kicks at minimal force. She focuses on every movement she makes, but a smile slowly creeps onto her face as she progresses. When she finishes the last kick, she’s grinning. She bounces lightly on her toes as she turns to face me.
“Wanna try?”
There’s a half-second pause before Noah says, “Yeah, give it a try, Zander. I’ll tell you what to do.” He claps his mitts together in preparation, but Van grabs his wrist.
“I’ll partner with Zander.” She says it with such authority that Noah doesn’t question her. He shrugs at the request, but hands the mitts over. My little sister beckons me to her, eager to pull me into this forbidden sport.
Van looks a bit nervous as I step up to her. I’m not sure of the source. Van and I may be able to heal quickly, but we can still get hurt. I don’t think that’s the reason behind her anxiety, though. I think she’s actually worried I won’t be able to control myself. It creates an odd feeling in me to know that.
Noah takes his place to the side of us, looking equally unnerved about Van facing me. It doesn’t stop him from calling out his first set of instructions. Just a series of simple punches, I move slowly at first. I test Van’s strength against mine. She holds up beautifully. I take it up a notch with the next set. That’s when she starts to feel it.
Pain radiates down Van’s wrists each time I hit the mitts. It’s small, at first, but it grows the longer I keep it up. When it really starts to affect us both is after Van switches to the larger blocking pad and Noah starts in with a variety of kicks. Van has to put a lot more force into blocking me, increasing the pain in her arms and burn in her thighs from holding her stance. My hunger starts taking notice. It gnaws at me and whispers to me, wanting me to push harder and faster. Against Van, it’s easy to resist. Against someone else…it could definitely be a problem.
I can see why my grandma doesn’t want us to have anything to do with this, but just like with football, it provides a controlled environment to cause pain. I suspected as much, but I never thought Van would be able to control her hunger even with so much structure. I’m impressed that she’s handled it so well.
We continue to practice, Van and I both soaking up the pain we are causing each other in small bursts then wrapping it up immediately after. She actually seems to be enjoying the exercise. That is a surprise given how much she usually craves chaos. She’s learned a lot in the past month. It gives me hope that her birthday won’t be as bad as I’ve worried it will be.
When we are finally ready to wrap up the session, Van stares at me over the blocking pad with a hopeful expression. “What did you think?” she asks.
“I liked it. It was…satisfying. You did really well, Van.”
Van grins, but all Noah can manage is to say, “Uh, good. I think.”
“So you wanna keep doing it?” Van asks. Noah looks a less than thrilled about me crashing more of their “study sessions.” I don’t think Van notices his reaction, but she says, “We could practice together in the evening or on the weekends.”
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” I say. Not only will this help Van learn more control, it will be fun, too. Facing Van without anyone else watching will be more than satisfying. Neither one of us will have to hold back. It will be a steady stream of hunger nourishing exercise like she’s never known. Football provides me with a good deal of relief, but I can already tell this will be so much better. For the first time, I wonder if my grandma knew this and still refused to let us learn.
As that thought bounces around in my head, her knowing eyes seem to follow its trail. For a moment, I doubt myself. She’s told us so much, but she always has that look in her eyes that says she knows even more. Is there a real reason behind her forbidding us from fighting? Her dad was cursed with hunger, but he died when she was so young. She can’t possibly know for sure.
Given that I get to see Ivy more often now, sneaking into her room at night shouldn’t be something I still do. Since meeting her, I find myself doing all kinds of things I shouldn’t. A quiet step over the window sill brings me into her room. She’s sound asleep. My mouth turns up as I see that she’s facing me this time. It’s better if she’s not, but I love seeing her beautiful face too much to really care. Slipping into the chair next to her bed brings me within a few feet of her. I take in the scent of her body, soap, sweat, and lotion. The blend is something I would recognize anywhere.
I don’t come to her house every night. If I see her during the day, I force myself to be happy with that. When I don’t see her, it’s impossible for me to resist. Sundays are the hardest because she never calls me to talk, doesn’t text me, and can’t hang out. After a week of getting tastes of her, it feels like coming off an addiction so intense I know I’ll never make it if I don’t get another fix.
I saw her every day this week at least for a few minutes, so this is the first time I’ve been to her room since last Sunday. Being with her at school and after my games is an equally enslaving mixture of torture and desire. It kills me to be with her, but I want the pain more than anything.
I know I’m seriously messed up, heading down the path that led Oscar to his current living arrangements, but sitting beside her at night helps me keep things balanced. On nights like this, I can be near her without rousing my hunger too much. It gives me the only semi-peaceful time I ever have with her, and it’s something I can carry in the back of my mind to keep myself stable when we’re face to face, clearly alive and awake.
Ivy’s late night hours make not falling asleep here difficult, though. It was one-thirty before I could risk climbing through her window. Sparring with Van this afternoon isn’t helping me stay awake. Soundlessly, I move the chair closer to her bed. My hand reaches out to hover over her for a brief moment. I want to touch her, but I would feel the warmth of her body, and tricking my hunger into thinking she is dead will become so much harder. Her eyes flutter—making my heart stop—then close again. I let out a breath and retract my hand.
I think I am safe now, but the sudden blaring of a car alarm snaps Ivy’s eyes open. I’m fast, but I’m not that fast. Her bleary eyes seem to catch sight of something, widening and activating a warning siren in her mind, though devoid of recognition just yet. My mind is frozen. I watch, immovable, as her hand whips under her pillow. She pulls her hand back out and her body follows the path, ending in a kneeling position with the knife glinting in the moonlight. Her eyes finally see me.
“Zander?”
Speaking and thinking are not likely functions for me, at the moment. She has a knife at my neck, but there are only two thoughts completely unrelated to the blade running through my mind right now. The first one is that her tight fitting tank top and petite pajama shorts show off her toned body perfectly. The muscles of her abdomen are tight and quivering under her skin. I want to run my fingers over them.
The second coherent thought stops me from doing just that. Pain doesn’t always accompany fear, but the precursor tastes like a gourmet appetizer to my hunger. Fear makes the pain more delectable the higher it climbs. Her racing heart, rapid breathing, and warm body have set my hunger ablaze. Like a twig snapping, it takes over completely. My refusal to listen to its desire is shoved away, and I watch in horror as my hands spring forward to grab her.
Ivy scrambles off the bed, knock
ing over a lamp in her panicked hurry. It crashes to the floor. The stained glass shade shatters. The movement and sound pauses me for a precious moment, but then the tang of blood hits me. I don’t run or lurch forward. I’m not Van. Ivy’s eyes widen as my legs carry me forward in a stalking, unstoppable gait. Each step is quicker than the last, more determined to bring me close enough to shatter her into fragments of agony.
Her eyes close, her arms drop to her side with the blade dangling uselessly from her fingers. She knows there’s no point in trying to stop me. The pain of my heart ripping apart doesn’t keep me from wrapping my fingers around her neck. I can hear the blade clatter to the ground, feel her hands grasping mine in an effort to tear them away. None of it matters.
“Ivy,” someone calls through the door. “Ivy, are you okay?”
Not even fear of discovery overpowers my hunger. My fingers cinch even more tightly around her throat. I can hear her gasping breaths, see the blue tinge to her skin. Only the shock of a sharp bite from small canine teeth into my calf is capable of forcing my hands away from Ivy. She gasps in a painful breath and reaches for the door knob.
Panic overwhelms me. I have half a second to hide. No chance of making it out the window, so I roll to the side and flatten myself against the wall just before Ivy yanks her door open wide enough to poke her head out. I can see that the tip of the knife is sticking out under the door. The little Yorkie Ivy and her family just rescued earlier this week is yapping at my feet.
Its diminutive size could never physically hold me back, but its glowering eyes and incessant noise work to distract me and give me a few moments to regain control. Ivy told me about the new dog several times, but I never even considered it might be sleeping in her room tonight. Silently, I thank the noisy little thing for stopping me. My eyes close. My fingers dig into the wall to steady myself. A worried male voice pins me to the wall even more.
Wicked Hunger (Someone Wicked This Way Comes) Page 21
