The girl worried her earlobe with her thumb in the brightly lit café as they waited for lunch. The effect of the sugar had crested and was now fading, soon to drop her like a junk car from a crane. He had ordered a feast, the promise of which, coupled with the time it took to arrive, had her both anxious and flaccid in an attempt to conserve energy.
Not accustomed to such generosity, she tried to assess the extent to which he was fucking with her. She had seen the faces of snaggletoothed boys and girls pasted to telephone poles, heard the safety mantras in school. On the surface, she was not in a favorable situation, yet it seemed less worrisome than many others she had known. It was difficult to see this man as a real threat. He had been friendly on the drive over here, though she’d been too tired to answer him back or say anything for herself. Maybe it was the way he had brushed the crumbs off her seat before she sat down; or how he decrusted the ketchup bottle with a damp napkin. How bad could he be if he tended to such details? He looked at her now in an unfamiliar way, searching and curious. She scorched under the light of his attention.
Just as the girl was about to crunch on another packet of sugar, the waitress brought a large tray of burgers, fries, and sodas. She transferred them to the table, one by one. The girl, who seconds before had felt nothing but the dry hollow of deep hunger, sprang to life with appetite. She reached for the oozing cheeseburger in front of her, but the man swiftly pinned her hand to the table. The perfect aroma wafted around, torturing her. She nearly passed out with disappointment.
“I know you’re hungry, but let’s be civil and introduce ourselves, little miss.” He released her hand. “I’m Manny Romero. What’s your name?”
“My name?” she said, searching for an answer. The policeman who had found her as an infant had supposedly named her Katherine, but the only time she heard her name spoken was when a teacher called roll or a social worker handed her off to a new foster family. It was official and girlie and nothing to do with her. The Machers had called her Bug, and the other families had put their own spins on her name, all of which she hated. It struck her, now, as a chance to give herself something more fitting. Nothing came to mind. The silence began to embarrass her.
“Well, you must be called something,” Manny said, rolling the teal cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows. She stared at the meat of his forearms, wondering what it must feel like to be that strong. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to name you myself.”
Then, it came to her. A name she had heard at school, maybe. Whose she couldn’t recall. Short and sharp, neither male nor female. Easy to say, easy to forget. She reached out her grubby hand, and he shook it.
“I’m Kit.”
“Good to know you, Kit,” he said, with a smile that softened the hunch in her shoulders. Kit. She could live with that. He released her hand and gestured to the gorgeous burger, with its butter-glossed bun.
“Eat, eat!”
Kit ate faster than she could swallow but forced it down anyway, desperate to be sated, tearful, a puppy at the teat. Crisp lettuce, creamy mayo, juicy rich burger, and fluffy bun to bind it all. She took a dozen fries, dragged them through ketchup and stuffed them in her mouth. Salty, golden—the best single mouthful she had ever known. She ate it all and thumbed the plate until it shone. She drank her Coke in long draws, sip-gulp-breathe, sip-gulp-breathe, and watched the level drop below the ice until she could hear the sputter of her straw taking in air around the last drops of drink.
With every vital swallow, she felt herself take shape. It was only now she had the wherewithal to look at the man sitting across from her with any attention. Taut oiled skin stretched over beautiful bones, straight sepia-edged teeth, minky brows pinched in amusement above eyes that burned blue. The whole arrangement of his features was so perfectly harmonious, she wished she could stop time and study them, run her fingers over their contours, commit them to memory.
Manny salt-and-peppered his ketchup and dipped a runt fry. “So, are you gonna tell me who you’re running from?”
Here we go, she thought. Kit reflexively looked out the window. A westbound eighteen-wheeler might do if she needed a quick getaway. Stow away in the back of the cab while the driver wasn’t looking. Hot day, windows were open. Trouble was, he’d probably overshoot Pecan Hollow. Better to get there on foot as planned. The big variable was Manny, and his agenda, if he had one, was unclear. Would he let her go or try to turn her in?
“Actually, I’m going somewhere,” she said. She had to make him think there was someone waiting for her, that she would be missed. “I have to meet my aunt. I was supposed to meet up with her but stopped for food, and that’s when you found me.” She cringed at the lameness of the lie.
“What about your parents? Anyone I can call?” More questions she couldn’t answer.
“No,” she said, gauging his interest. She couldn’t tell yet if he was being helpful or trying to suss her out. Maybe he was the type to hold her for ransom. She nearly laughed at the thought of a moneyed couple pacing the halls of their fancy upholstered home, anxious to bring their darling girl home. “Just my aunt. She’ll be wondering where I am, but you shouldn’t call her or you’ll worry her even more.”
Manny looked at her suspiciously but said nothing more.
The waitress dropped off the check and a monstrous, oozing banana split with two spoons.
At the sight of it, Kit grew damp and queasy. Unaccustomed to the richness of the meal, her stomach revolted. She wiggled out of the booth and broke for the bathroom, slopping the floor with her sick on the way. Bent over the toilet, she vomited lavishly, what must have seemed like an improbable amount coming from such a small person. She looked at the mess she had made and peeped, “It’s all wasted.” She felt ashamed to see the splatter of her insides on the toilet bowl, the floor, her shoes.
Manny touched her back. He must have followed her in. She tensed against it, half expecting him to shove her head in the water. But he held his warm, broad hand against her like a compress, and it dawned on her that he was not mad, he was there to comfort her. Her cries slowed, her breath settled. He brushed the tangled dark hair away from her face and dabbed her chin with a coarse paper towel.
“I’ve seen roadkill looked better than you.” He was teasing, intimately. She didn’t smile back but felt less afraid. It sounded like he cared.