Hungry Hearts

by Elsie Chapman

  Delilah poked her head out of an aisle of cleaning supplies.

  “I hope you don’t mind. If you agree to our interview, I’d want to film it, and they’re here to help me,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know about agreeing to an on-camera interview. I can talk to you, yes, but I’m not keen on being on film,” he said, opening up the box to reveal pastel-colored cookies. “I like to stay out of the limelight.”

  “So, did you see a boy like the missing Barnaby on your security camera?” I asked. “And what made you sure it wasn’t him? And according to your mother, this was the fifth time you’d seen the same kid?”

  “Ah, my mother.” Franklin unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, and then looked at Delilah and Ranvir, still not assembled at the counter. “You kids come on over, have some cookies. I’m telling you, you need them. The best in the neighborhood, in all of Rowbury.”

  Continuing to chew, he held the box out, and we took one each.

  “My mother thinks about sad news all the time. I believe she thrives on it. So when I visit, I give her a bit of such news.” He smiled and revealed lettuce draped on his upper front teeth. “So I happened to tell her about quote-unquote Barnaby on my footage. Again. And always in the middle of the night, round two a.m.”

  “Can we see it?” I leaned forward, still holding my cookie. “Just to see what he looks like?”

  “Sure, and you know what else? You can film the footage, there are a few of them with Barnaby. That, I’ll let you.” He took another bite of his sandwich and smiled again, lettuce gone now.

  * * *

  “I don’t like him,” Delilah declared. “Kind of creepy. Too nice without knowing us and yet not nice enough to let us interview him on film.”

  We were next door to Franklin’s Hardware, sitting outside on the steps of the Hungry Heart Row Cinema, which, according to a sign on the door of the box office right behind us, didn’t open until three p.m.

  The same theater where Barnaby was last seen.

  “But those cookies . . . I didn’t have breakfast, and they hit the spot.” Ranvir stretched out his six-foot frame and lay back. His dastaar, a deep blue turban, cushioned his head against the stone steps. He always made sure to match his turban with his shoes, and today was no exception—a pair of dark blue, suede Jordans rested on the lowest step, almost touching the sidewalk. “He was nice to feed us like that. Mmm, cookies.”

  “Have mine then. I’m waiting for real food.” Delilah passed her cookie over to him.

  “Hey, let’s check out the food carts behind this place. There’s a good halal one we’d sometimes eat at when we’d visit my grandma before, plus the spot Barnaby got his hot dog that day he went missing.” I stood up, dusting off the back of my jeans. “Maybe we can interview the hot dog vendor. And also, eat.”

  “Um, Hania?” Delilah pointed at the marquee sign above us, listing a selection of films.

  Home Is: A Film by Gabrielle Rose, 1st place Rowbury Teen Film Fest, M, W, Sun 3 p.m.

  I stared. “She doesn’t live in Hungry Heart Row or even Rowbury. Why are they playing her film?”

  We walked away, but I couldn’t help glancing back at the theater. Was it my imagination, or did I see someone ducking down in the box office window?

  * * *

  “I’ve been here, at the same exact spot, for eight years.” The hot dog vendor passed a cardboard tray containing a bun-less sausage and coleslaw to Ranvir. “But that day is seared in my memory. The police wouldn’t stop asking questions. Yes, I saw the boy. Yes, he bought a hot dog. And fries. Can’t forget the fries. And yes, he walked that way to the theater.”

  He pointed behind him across the park. And then nodded into the camera. “That’s all. That’s how much I want to say.”

  I paused the recording. “Can I get you to say what you think happened? I might not use it, but it’s just always good to get extra footage.” I smiled big in what I hoped was a polite way.

  “A’right.” The large man sighed, looking odd doing so, with his bushy blond beard and head of golden hair covered in food-preparation netting. Odd, like a lion ensnared by a flimsy net. “I actually think Barnaby ate his dinner, wasn’t planning on going to the movie—you know what was playing that night? Love at Last, that’s what—and then—”

  “What does that mean?” Ranvir pressed, leaving his hot dog untouched while he listened. “Why couldn’t he have been going to see Love at Last? Because he’s a guy?”

  “No, no.” The hot dog man shook his head. “Because it had been sold out, with all that buzz. And our theater is tiny. There’s no way he could have gotten a ticket last minute.”

  “Then why did the ticket vendor say he went to the movie?” I asked.

  “That’s where I differ with what some of the locals say and that’s why the police buy my story. I don’t think he went to see Love at Last.” He looked right into the camera. “Barnaby left home. He had my hot dog before he left. End of story.”

  Delilah walked over from the halal food cart, two gyro sandwiches in her hands, and passed me one. I unwrapped it and took a bite while staring at Ginkgo Street.

  * * *

  “All my friends liked you very much. They want you to make a movie at each Thursday Club.” Valimma was making tea for me. I don’t know why, but I only drank tea when Valimma made it. It tasted fuller for some reason. Or was it richer? Anyway, it was only good when Valimma’s hand held the spoon that stirred the tea leaves and water and milk and sugar.

  “That would be nice, recording all your club meets, except that the film I’m working on is due in two weeks, Valimma.” I reached with both my hands for the mug she held out. “Maybe I shouldn’t even enter.”

  “Why? You always do the film contest, moleh.” She brought her own mug to the table where I was clicking on the video clips I’d already recorded.

  “I don’t know why but I’m not feeling it. Maybe it’s because I’m not in my old neighborhood.” I wondered if I should get into it with Valimma, this not enjoying Hungry Heart Row. “I didn’t really want to move.”

  “But you used to love coming here! From when you were little.” She picked up a crunchy biscuit that was more like dried bread than a cookie and dunked it into her tea. “You’d beg your dad, ‘Can we move here?’ That was why he thought you would all be happy.”

  Yes. This was true. But that was because those were short-and-sweet visits.

  Now this was supposed to be forever.

  “Yeah, but it’s not home.” I tried not to look at her mouth, which slackened a bit at what I’d just said. “I’ll get used to it. Anyway, I’m so happy you’re living with us now. I get to have your tea every day if I want!”

  The mouth turned up slightly. “Ah, yes. You love my tea. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” I sipped the tea to test its temperature.

  “Because I want you to love it.” Valimma dunked the rest of her biscuit in and paused before biting into it. “That’s how you’ll learn to love Hungry Heart Row.”

  She said the last part matter-of-factly and confidently. I waited for her to finish her thought, but that was it. She continued eating her biscuit, looking through the stack of supermarket flyers as she did each Tuesday.

  Was Valimma saying that I had to want to love Hungry Heart Row to like it here?

  That wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes of footage. That was all I had. And that included the grainy video clips from the security camera, each of which simply showed a white teen, indistinguishable really except maybe for an overly large baseball hat, walking on the sidewalk across from Franklin’s Hardware. Always time-stamped around two a.m., like Franklin had said.

  I rubbed my eyes. Because I definitely couldn’t work at home with boxes everywhere, I had taken refuge in one of the Rowbury library’s quiet rooms. It was nice in here, wood paneled on two sides, windowed to the outside behind me and, in front, an all-glass wall facing into t
he library.

  I’d been at it for two hours, trying to see what I could do to cobble a film together. And how any of the things I’d heard were connected to the Barnaby Bennett at Daily Harvest.

  It was Thursday morning already, and in a week’s time I’d need to be editing, because, in another week’s time, reality hit via the film festival submission deadline.

  I slid my headphones off to stare out of the glass wall, wondering what else I could film.

  I was so lost in thought that it took me a while to register what I was looking at about thirty feet directly across from me, near the check-out desk: a camera, held waist high. Before I could see a face, the person holding the camera abruptly turned around and walked through the turnstiles, out of the building.

  Something was familiar about the figure that had just exited.

  I left my things and went to the check-out counter. A teen of South Asian background, like me, beamed at me under her short hair. NEHA said her name tag, under which was written with a Sharpie [that’s NAY-HA] . “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can.” I leaned in, feeling strange at what I was about to do. “Um, but it’s a weird question.”

  “I like weird.” Neha beamed again. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Was that person standing here just now, um, was she holding a camera or something?” I whispered.

  “Yes, actually, she was. She’s got special permission from the library. But don’t worry—she’s not focusing on faces. Just our ambience. If you’re not okay with it, I can tell her to not use the footage she just took?” Neha raised helpful eyebrows.

  “No, it’s okay.” I waved a hand, half in appreciation, half in good-bye. “Thanks. Thanks, Neha.”

  I went back to the quiet room.

  I was sure I’d just seen Gabrielle Rose.

  Filming me.

  * * *

  Delilah picked up immediately. “You’re calling me? You never call me, Hania! We’re text-only friends.”

  “I think I know what GR is up to. Hear me out, okay?” I walked down Dill Street, glancing around, wondering where Gabrielle was now. She’d left the library only five minutes ago. “Somehow she’s in Hungry Heart Row. Somehow she’s filming me. Somehow I’m part of her film. I know it.”

  “Filming you? Um, why?” Delilah sounded incredulous.

  “She was in the library when I was in there working. With a camera aimed at me. Maybe I’m the subject of her ‘meta’ film.”

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Yes. Hundred percent sure.” I saw a café on my right, and an idea struck me. “Wait, I’m going to make it two hundred percent sure. I’ll call you back.”

  With a latte for strength, I sat at a table inside the café and got my laptop out of my backpack. As I was about to put it down, something else was set in its place on the smooth marble-looking tabletop.

  Atop a square of robin’s-egg-blue paper, a single pastry: cream colored and round, with a center, round as well, that was darker, almost brown.

  “Hi, I’m Lila.” The speaker was a girl my age with neat bangs and wide eyes. She held a small box that was stamped PANADERÍA PASTELERÍA, the same kind of box holding the cookies Franklin had offered us at the hardware store. “I think you need an ojo de buey. It’s from my bakery. For you.”

  Each of her sentences was a statement spoken softly but with certainty. I looked down at the pastry.

  Well, I was hungry, and this looked so good. I reached for it. “Thanks so much.”

  I realized there was no one around to receive my thanks. The girl was gone, the only evidence that she’d been here being the now empty box she’d left on the corner of the table. Taking a bite into the delicious doughy texture, I peered at the phone number on the box. Maybe I could call her later to thank her.

  I booted up my laptop and opened the State Film Fest awards-day clip on YouTube.

  There was a shot of me being called up for second place. And then there was the announcement for first, and there was Gabrielle Rose.

  I narrowed my eyes, rewinding and pausing at the mark where the camera panned Gabrielle as she was getting up from her folding chair to come onstage.

  A boy with an extra-large baseball hat was beside Gabrielle Rose, smiling at her while clapping.

  The exact same person on Franklin’s security camera.

  Barnaby.

  * * *

  Barnaby is Gabrielle’s FRIEND.

  Two chat bubbles immediately showed up in reply to my text.

  WHAT? HOW? Ranvir.

  CRAZY! THIS MEANS YOU CHOSE THE RIGHT TOPIC Delilah.

  What if she’s setting me up? To film this missing-boy thing? While SHE films ME? Her META film? I lowered the phone, scanning the café.

  I’d glanced around when I first entered, but what if Gabrielle had come in when I was preoccupied? Just like that PANADERÍA PASTELERÍA girl had snuck up on me before?

  A guy in the corner was looking over here, his phone positioned on top of his table as though . . . as though he were filming me?

  I stared at him unblinkingly, and he lowered his phone. Could he be working with GR?

  OMG, I was losing it.

  I packed up and left the café, turning left on Caper Street, heading home, refusing to look around.

  But a block before reaching the street I lived on, when a group of teens spilled onto the sidewalk behind me from an alley between a row of town houses, I decided to make a sudden duck into the doorway of a restaurant on Pepper Street.

  I waited, and, sure enough, Gabrielle walked by.

  The only good thing: Her hands were camera-less.

  I opened the door to the restaurant. A deluge of smells hit me, one of them a déjà vu to my senses.

  Three food stalls were in front of me, two manned by elderly women and the third by a teen.

  Suddenly I was ravenous, not just hungry, like when I’d eaten the pastry. The girl, in the closest stall, stared at me from the register. “Yes?”

  I looked at the display board behind her. ADOBO.

  “Can I get an order of shrimp adobo? And rice?” I said. “To go?”

  “Yep.” The girl punched it in without taking her eyes off me. “You’ve had it before?”

  “Yes. A friend of my grandmother’s made it for us. Just last week.”

  “And you’re back for more of Lola Simeona’s food.” The girl smiled. “May it be exactly what you need.”

  She headed to a door behind her.

  I was perplexed. This was the third time today someone had said something about food being needed by me. People in Hungry Heart Row seemed to have a weird obsession with food.

  But I had to admit it was all soo good. The food here.

  Maybe food was what I needed to solve the weirdness happening around my film. And what was happening around Barnaby Bennett, missing in some places and not in others.

  Maybe it all had to do with Hungry Heart Row, the people here. And the food?

  I glanced at the display board again. SOUP NO. 5.

  SERVED 9 A.M. TO 2 A.M.

  I closed my eyes, because there was something about two a.m. I couldn’t shake.

  * * *

  Today was Thursday so that meant Thursday club again. Valimma poured the remainder of the thin dosa batter on the griddle and spread it with the back of a wooden spoon, round and round until it filled the whole black surface. She waited a bit and then brushed the thin, crepelike top with oil. After flipping it to sear it quickly, she removed it from the heat and added it to the stack of dosas in a large-mouthed insulated container.

  On the counter was a large Tupperware with sambar—vegetables stewed with lentils and spices—being stared at by me, my hand holding the plastic lid aloft. “Valimma, how many vegetables are there in this thing? I see seven.”

  “Nine, actually, moleh. The dosa is simple, subtle, so the sambar has to be complex and strong. Mix it, and it’s good together.” Valimma dried her washed hands on a dishcloth and then smiled.
“I used to play that game with your father. How many vegetables in this food? He was so careful with his guesses that he always got it correct.”

  “Always? No wonder he’s an accountant.” I snapped the lid on the sambar and picked up the foam container of adobo shrimp I’d bought. I scooped a shrimp up with my fingers and dipped my head back to drop it in. The intensity smothered my tongue. “Oh, wow, strong.”

  “You need the rice. For balance,” Valimma said, opening the rice container, a spoon in hand. “Rice is good. Open.”

  I obliged, but not before I laid another shrimp on the portion of rice being held out. I savored it, smiling at Valimma as one of her oft-repeated phrases came to me. “Bountiful flavor.”

  “That’s right. And you didn’t want to try Simeona’s food before, when you first saw it. On the day you moved here.” Valimma tsked me. “Any time someone makes something for YOU, you have to try it. Just a tiny bit even.”

  “Even if you know you’re not going to like it for sure?”

  “Even then. Remember, that’s how you’ll love it here. Your new home.”

  “By eating people’s food?” I laughed. “Is that what Hungry Heart Row is all about? Food?”

  “Yes and no,” Valimma said. “The people here want you to love what they offer. And if they want to show you love through food, you let them know you see it. And then you show love back the best way you know how. That’s home.”

  I reached for more shrimp adobo, trying to make out what she was saying. It was kind of confusing, but I nodded, because maybe it was one of those things only Valimma understood after living and loving it here, her neighborhood.

  “Let’s go now. You can eat more at Margaret’s. She is so very excited you’re coming over,” Valimma said, picking up her purse. “I think today will be a fancy Thursday Club.”

  “Good, because I need more film footage.” I carried the bag with the food Valimma had made to the foyer and set it down beside my camera backpack. “And Margaret’s good on camera.”