Hungry
Day Seven of Thirty Days of Writing

“I mean I know it’s free, but — “ she said before erupting in laughter at the new girl from our third period. Her dark hair was tucked under a gray headband and knotted on the top of her head. She carried three stacked Styrofoam lunch trays to the back left corner of the fluorescent cafeteria, and sat down at her regular table alone. She moved in two trailers down from me in Stead Park about three months ago.
I could feel my feet sweating in my tennis shoes, as I forced by body to quake in laughter with the others. I could feel the emptiness of my stomach being traced by the remaining bile, like fingers scraping the walls looking for a scrap of anything to feed on.
Karen, slouched in her chair, pouting her lips at the group of long haired boys who are strutting by to their table, trays of food — pizza, sloppy joes, apples, milk, while our table was covered in Seventeen magazines and nail polish. I pressed my hand hard against my stomach for a moment, daring it to growl the day that I was finally invited to sit at Karen Kloster’s lunch table. You’re not hungry. You’re not hungry.
The bell rings and we all walk slowly back to class. Teachers corral us forward, but we are determined to be the last in the door. “The best people always arrive late,” I had heard Karen say one day to her friends in the hallway, flipping her perfectly straight blonde hair over her shoulder. Karen walks up next to me and links her pinky in mine and passes me folded piece of pink paper, a small smile curls in my direction.
We continue our slow walk, but I want to race back to my desk and rip open the note under the cover of one of my spirals. When we walk through the classroom door, Mrs. Urnse glares at Karen and the gang, giving me, the last through the door, a look of surprise. I blush and stare at the floor. When we are finally seated I unfold the pink paper — Karen’s special notepaper: Marcy, I don’t think that you should sit with us at lunch anymore. The girls and I gave it a try, but we don’t think it’s going to work out. Hope you understand. We can still be friends. Love ya, Karen
I wanted to throw up and cry at the same time. I smiled at her, trying to splay confidence across my face, and crumpled the note in my fist under the desk. My stomach growls, and the whole class stared at me. I feel my face heat up, and I try to hide it with the sleeve of my hoodie.
When I get home later, no one is there. Mom left a note that she’s at work and that she loves me. She says she’ll bring home some leftovers from the restaurant later tonight. I curl up under my pink bedspread, wrapping my arms around my knees. I can feel the crunch of that piece of paper against my belly. I rip it from my pocket and crush it further in my palm, before tossing it on the floor. My stomach is burning, yelling at me to put something, anything inside of it. Feed me. I know there will be nothing to eat until Mom gets off work at midnight.
I curl up again and I stare at the neon note on the floor, and wonder if my stomach has shrunk to that size yet. I’d read it does that. I feel like I could throw up, but I know from experience that will only make it worse, so I snatch up the paper and shove it in my mouth. I gag, but that only makes me chomp harder until the paper is small enough to swallow. My body dry heaves but it stays down. Tears stain my pillow, and my stomach rumbles on. I wish I had eaten lunch today.
