The guys didn’t seem to notice Trevor’s backpack holding his place. They were all sitting at the table, laughing and eating their à la carte burgers and French fries. Trevor shoved the money at the hot lunch cashier and made his way over to the table.
“Fee Fi Fo Fum,” said one of the kids.
“That’s my backpack,” Trevor said softly.
“That’s my backpack,” mimicked the kid in a girly voice. He had red hair that covered one eye like a comma. Ethan Sweeney. Of course.
Trevor reached for his backpack but Mike Wheelock, with his greasy black hair and a Patriots jersey, grabbed it first.
“Hey, freakshow, what do you keep in here? Body parts? I bet he’s got some dead chick’s head stuffed in here,” he said, laughing.
“Just give it,” Trevor said.
Mike started to unzip the backpack and stuck his head in to inspect.
“Ew, what’s that smell?” he said, jerking his head back. The banana.
The other guys leaned over to see inside. And suddenly Trevor felt the metal turning into quicksilver, mercury rushing through his veins.
“What’s this?” the Sweeney kid asked, reaching in and grabbing the camera from Mrs. D.
“I said, give it,” Trevor said. He thought about Mrs. D., picking out the camera and paying for it out of her own pocket. He thought about what the kid might do to it.
“Give it, give it,” Ethan mocked, his voice high and sharp.
Normally, Trevor just tried to ignore these guys, but lately, he couldn’t seem to control himself. It was like this new body of his, these new hands, had a mind of their own. So the next thing Trevor knew, the tray of spaghetti was flying onto the floor and his fists were swinging, though they connected with nothing but air. The whole cafeteria erupted, the chanting starting small and growing bigger, like a heartbeat. Fight, fight, fight.
His eyes stung and his mouth flooded with the taste of metal. But before he had the satisfaction of his fist making contact with Ethan’s face, someone was yanking his collar hard, choking him. He shook his head like a dog on a chain, and the hands let go, making him stumble backward.
“All right, that’s enough. Break it up,” Mr. Douglas, the janitor, said.
Trevor blinked hard and when his eyes focused again, he noticed the way the sunlight was shining through the cafeteria window, casting his own shadow, enormous and dark on the filthy cafeteria floor. And he thought about the gift from Mrs. D. About the camera. About how he might capture this picture: his own terrifying silhouette and all of the other kids’ faces staring at him with something between fascination and horror.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2010 by T. Greenwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-5697-3
The Hungry Season Page 31