{"product_id":"kids-of-appetite-isbn-9780147513663","title":"Kids of Appetite","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"Funny, sweet, utterly heart-wrenching.\" —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller from the critically acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eMosquitoland\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVictor Benucci and Madeline Falco have a story to tell.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It begins with the death of Vic’s father.\u003cbr\u003e It ends with the murder of Mad’s uncle.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eThe Hackensack Police Department would very much like to hear it.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But in order to tell their story, Vic and Mad must focus on all the chapters in between.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eThis is a story about:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 1. A coded mission to scatter ashes across New Jersey.\u003cbr\u003e 2. The momentous nature of the Palisades in winter.\u003cbr\u003e 3. One dormant submarine.\u003cbr\u003e 4. Two songs about flowers.\u003cbr\u003e 5. Being cool in the traditional sense.\u003cbr\u003e 6. Sunsets \u0026amp; ice cream \u0026amp; orchards \u0026amp; graveyards.\u003cbr\u003e 7. Simultaneous extreme opposites.\u003cbr\u003e 8. A narrow escape from a war-torn country.\u003cbr\u003e 9. A story collector.\u003cbr\u003e 10. How to listen to someone who does not talk.\u003cbr\u003e 11. Falling in love with a painting.\u003cbr\u003e 12. Falling in love with a song.\u003cbr\u003e 13. Falling in love.\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eBestseller — A \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book of 2016 — An Amazon Best Book of the Year 2016: Young Adult — A Junior Library Guild selection — An ABA Indies Choice Young Adult Honor book 2017 — Kids' Indie Next List \"Top Ten\" Pick (Autumn 2016) — A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults 2017 — A \u003ci\u003eSouthern Living\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of 2016 — A Bank Street CBC Best Book of the Year 2017\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Arnold’s funny and touching second novel is about many things: making peace with the past; the families we create; abstract painting; and what it means to be a 'genuine heart-thinker' . . . Arnold has a talent for stringing together words in just the right, jumbled order. His sentences are arrows.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[In] David Arnold’s follow-up to last year’s wonderful \u003ci\u003eMosquitoland\u003c\/i\u003e . . . Arnold continues to show mastery in crafting relatable teens struggling with dark circumstances . . . They’re a highly enjoyable bunch of outsiders.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Funny, sweet, utterly heart-wrenching.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A gorgeous, insightful, big-hearted joy of a book. \u003ci\u003eKids of Appetite\u003c\/i\u003e made me fall in love with the world a little bit more.\" —\u003cb\u003eNicola Yoon\u003c\/b\u003e, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eEverything, Everything\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eKids of Appetite\u003c\/i\u003e is one of the most honest, emotional, human books I have ever read. You will feel it. This one's a life-changer.\" —\u003cb\u003eBecky Albertalli\u003c\/b\u003e, Morris Award\u003ci\u003e–\u003c\/i\u003ewinning author of \u003ci\u003eSimon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e★ \"Showcases a memorable cast of outsiders carving out space for themselves . . . Arnold writes with a Hinton-esque depth and rawness.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e★ \"Luminous and deeply affecting . . . Beautifully written with compelling voices, evocative allusions and metaphors, and pithy aphorisms, this offers the sentimental cleansing (the kind that comes with tears) that books do best, admirably living up to Mad’s own favorite book, \u003ci\u003eThe Outsiders\u003c\/i\u003e, in its path through tragedy to blessing.\" —\u003ci\u003eBCCB\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Expert pacing . . . Arnold’s memorable characters feel real, and their story compels till the end.\" —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Spot-on pacing and lovely wordsmithing. Sophisticated teen readers will love this.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Arnold's prose is sharp and observant, his pacing restrained, revealing each character’s backstory gradually while also setting up a murder investigation that keeps readers guessing until the second it doesn’t. Vic constantly refers to life revelations from his father, including the idea of “simultaneous extreme opposites”—a concept that, given all the laugh-cries to be had in his emotionally well-wrought novel, Arnold motherfrakking nails.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Arnold offers a heartfelt tale that entwines ferocity with quirk, loss with first love, and beauty with asymmetry . . . Philosophical teens drawn to themes of belonging will revel in his latest.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This literary novel will satisfy teens looking for a quirky read . . . The writing is lush and lovely.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A big-hearted book that will make you feel nostalgic for your teen years, \u003ci\u003eKids of Appetite\u003c\/i\u003e will leave you cry-laughing until the very last page.\" \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eBrit + Co. \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Raw, honest, and incredibly affecting.\"\u003ci\u003e —Bustle\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Passion, honesty and energy radiate off every page of this memorable book.\" —\u003ci\u003eJustine\u003c\/i\u003e magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Arnold gives the reader a complex plot that incorporates many of the complexities of life. The diverse group of characters substantiates the culmination of the plot and the police investigation.  A great book.\"\u003ci\u003e —VOYA\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"With \u003ci\u003eKids of Appetite\u003c\/i\u003e, [Arnold] brings the same intense emotion and stunning prose that made \u003ci\u003eMosquitoland \u003c\/i\u003esuch a perfect book, and takes on some bigger challenges.\" \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eBook Riot\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Equal parts S.E. Hinton’s \u003ci\u003eThe Outsiders\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Breakfast Club\u003c\/i\u003e . . . Every line is purposeful, and Arnold’s sentence craftsmanship is perfection.” \u003ci\u003e—Clarion-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book will leave you smiling from the inside out, in the best way possible.” \u003ci\u003e—The Morning Call \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e- \u003c\/i\u003eKids' Indie Next List \"Top Ten\" Pick (Autumn 2016)\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e- A Junior Library Guild selection\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for David Arnold's \u003ci\u003eMosquitoland\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Arnold proves his worth as a top-notch storyteller on his first literary go-round, which is reminiscent of Ferris Bueller's Day Off if done by John Hughes with Jack Kerouac. . . Mosquitoland stings in all the right places, which is why it will no doubt be many teenagers' new favorite book and win over the crustiest old-timer, too.\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"David Arnold combines brio with compassion in this captivating first novel, which holds surprises, big and small, right to the end. . . Illuminating\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"David Arnold's sparkling, startling, laugh-out-loud debut. . . speaks to the sweetness of life, the courage of love and the blinkers that adolescents may need to remove to see what is truly around them.\" —\u003cb\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's a breath of fresh air when a novel like David Arnold's Mosquitoland bucks the usual classifications and stands defiantly alone. . . like any odyssey worth embarking on, what the heroine—and the reader—finds along the way is far more interesting than we ever could have expected.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Memorable\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePeople\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the most talked about books of the year\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eTeen Vogue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In Mosquitoland, David Arnold has created one of the most unique narrative voices to show up in the world of young adult fiction. I don't remember life before Mim, and I don't want to. Mosquitoland is equal parts sharp, sad, and surreal.  This book is genius, war paint and all.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJohn Corey Whaley\u003c\/b\u003e, Printz-winning author of \u003ci\u003eWhere Things Come Back\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“David Arnold’s writing is both heartfelt and hilarious. You will fall in love with Mim, even as her grand journey will keep you guessing. Mosquitoland reminds us that sometimes imperfect is just perfect.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eRuta Sepetys\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of Between Shades of Gray\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “Arnold pens a stunning debut, showcasing a cast of dynamic characters. . . Mesmerizing.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “Wholly enjoyable. . . There is no shortage of humor in Mim’s musings, interspersed with tender scenes and a few heart-pounding surprises. Mim’s triumphant evolution is well worth the journey.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Arnold boldly tackles mental illness and despair, and sexual assault and sexual identity, without ever once losing the bigheartedness of the story. . . In the words of one of Mim's Greyhound seatmates, Mosquitoland has pizazz—lots and lots of it.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Arnold’s characters are captivating and believable. . . This is a very engaging and compelling story about individuals who succeed or fail to manage life’s challenges. An action-packed thriller with a touch of humor and romance.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Connection\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ \"Arnold skillfully sets up doubts in readers' minds about how reliable Mim's impressions are, even as her razor-sharp humor and intelligence make us want to believe her. David Arnold is a write to watch.\" —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eDavid Arnold\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of\u003ci\u003e The Electric Kingdom, Mosquitoland, Kids of Appetite, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e The Strange Fascinations of Noah Hypnotik, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich has been optioned for film by Paramount. He has won the Southern Book Prize and the Great Lakes Book Award, and was named a \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003eFlying Start for his debut. His books have been translated into over a dozen languages. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with his wife and son.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLearn more at davidarnoldbooks.com and follow him on Instagram @iamdavidarnold and Twitter @roofbeam.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e The Momentous Multitudes\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e(or, Gird Thy Silly, Futile Selves)\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eInterrogation Room #3\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Bruno Victor Benucci III \u0026amp; Sergeant S. Mendes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e December 19 \/\/ 3:12 p.m.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Consider this: billions of people in the world, each with billions of \u003ci\u003eI ams\u003c\/i\u003e. I am a quiet observer, a champion wallflower. I am a lover of art, the Mets, the memory of Dad. I represent approximately one seven-billionth of the population; these are my momentous multitudes, and that’s just for starters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It begins with my friends.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What does?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “My story,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only that’s not quite right. I have to go back further than that, before we were friends, back when it was just . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Okay, got it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ve fallen in love something like a thousand times.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes smiles a little, nudges the digital recorder closer. “I’m sorry—you said . . . you’ve fallen in love?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A thousand times,” I say, running both hands through my hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I used to think love was bound by numbers: first kisses, second dances, infinite heartbreaks. I used to think numbers outlasted the love itself, surviving in the dark corners of the demolished heart. I used to think love was heavy and hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don’t think those things anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I am a Super Racehorse.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You’re a \u003ci\u003ewhat\u003c\/i\u003e?” asks Mendes, her eyes at once tough and tired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nothing. Where’s your uniform?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She wears a tweed skirt with a fitted jacket and flowy blouse. I quietly observe her brown eyes, very intense, and—were it not for the baggy pillows, and the crow’s feet framing her features like facial parentheses—quite pretty. I quietly observe the slight creases on her hands and neck, indicative of premature aging. I quietly observe the absence of a wedding ring. I quietly observe her dark hair, shoulder-length with just a lingering shadow of shape and style.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Parenthetical, slight, absence, lingering: the momentous multitudes of Mendes, it seems, are found in the hushed footnote.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Technically, I’m off duty,” she says. “Plus, I’m a sergeant, so I don’t always have to wear a uniform.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So you’re the one in charge, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I report to Lieutenant Bell, but this is my case if that’s what you’re asking.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I reach under my chair, pull my Visine out of the front pocket of my backpack, and apply a quick drop in each eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Victor, you’ve been missing eight days. Then this morning you and”—she shuffles through papers until finding the one she’s looking for—“Madeline Falco march in here, practically holding hands with Mbemba Bahizire Kabongo, aka Baz, the primary suspect in our murder investigation.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I wasn’t holding hands with Baz. And he’s no murderer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don’t think so?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I know so.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes gives me a pity-smile, the kind of smile that frowns. “He just turned himself in, Vic. That, plus his DNA is on the murder weapon. We have more than enough to put Kabongo behind bars for a very long time. What I’m hoping you might shed some light on is how you go from running out the front door of your own home eight days ago, to walking in here this morning. You said you have a story to tell. So tell it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This morning’s memory is fresh, Baz’s voice ingrained in my brain. \u003ci\u003eDiversion tactics, Vic. They will need time. And we must give it to them.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Every girl who wears eyeliner,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sergeant Mendes squints. “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Every girl who plays an instrument, except—maybe not bassoon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m sorry, I don’t unders—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Every girl who wears old Nikes. Every girl who draws on them. Every girl who shrugs or bakes or reads.” \u003ci\u003eTell them about all the girls you thought you loved, the ones from before. \u003c\/i\u003eI smile on the inside, the only place I can. “Every girl who rides a bike.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I pull out my handkerchief and dab the drool from the corner of my mouth. Dad called it my “leaky mug.” I used to hate that. Now I miss it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes . . . yes, I think I miss the hated things most.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes leans back in her chair. “Shortly after you left, your mom reported you missing. I’ve been in your room, Vic. It’s all Whitman and Salinger and Matisse. You’re smart. And kind of a nerd, if you don’t mind my saying.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What’s your point?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “My point is, you’re no hard-ass. So why are you acting like one?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Under the metal table, I pick at the fabric of my KOA wristband. “‘\u003ci\u003eI am large, I contain multitudes\u003c\/i\u003e.’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes picks up: “‘\u003ci\u003eI concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. Who has done his day’s work? Who will soonest be through with his supper? Who wishes to walk with me?\u003c\/i\u003e’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I try to hide my shock, but I can’t be sure my eyes didn’t just give me away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Whitman balanced out the criminal justice classes,” says Mendes. “You know what the next line is, don’t you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don’t. So I say nothing at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “‘\u003ci\u003eWill you speak before I am gone?\u003c\/i\u003e’” she says quietly. “‘\u003ci\u003eWill you prove already too late?\u003c\/i\u003e’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Due respect, Miss Mendes. You don’t know me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looks back at the file in front of her. “Bruno Victor Benucci III, sixteen, son of Doris Jacoby Benucci and the late Bruno Benucci Jr., deceased two years. Only child. Five-foot-six. Dark hair. Suffers from the rare Moebius syndrome. Obsession with abstract art—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do you know what that is?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh, I’ve had my share of Picasso-obsessed crooks, lemme tell you, it’s no picnic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s not what I meant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I know what you meant.” Mendes flips the file shut. “And yeah, I did some research. Moebius is a rare neurological disorder affecting the sixth and seventh cranial nerves, present from birth, causing facial paralysis. I understand it’s been difficult for you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes’s tone suggests a hint of self-satisfaction, as if she’s been sitting on this definition, just waiting for me to ask if she knew what was wrong with my face. I’ve had Moebius syndrome my whole life, and here is what I’ve learned: the only people arrogant enough to use the words I understand are the ones who can’t possibly understand. People who truly get it never say much of anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You did some research,” I say, barely above a whisper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A little.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So you know what it feels like to have sand shoved up your eyelids.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s what it’s like sometimes, not being able to blink,” I say. “Dry eye doesn’t begin to describe it. More like desert eye.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Vic—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Did your research offer insight into the night terrors that come from sleeping with your eyes half shut? Or how drinking from a cup feels about as possible as lassoing the moon? Or how the best I can hope for is that kids just leave me alone? Or how certain teachers slow down when talking to me because they assume I’m stupid?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes shifts uncomfortably in her chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I’m not complaining. Lots of people with Moebius have it worse than me. I used to wish I was someone else, but then . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then Dad introduced me to Henri Matisse, an artist who believed each face had its own rhythm. Matisse looked for what he called “particular asymmetry” in his portraits. I liked that. I wondered about the rhythm of my own face, and about my particular asymmetry. I told Dad this once. He said there was beauty in my asymmetry. This made me feel better. Not un-alone, just less alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Accompanied by art, at least.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “But then . . . ?” says Mendes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I almost forgot I’d started a sentence. “Nothing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Vic, I know you’ve had it tough.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I point both index fingers at my unflinching face. “You mean my . . . ‘affliction’?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I never used the word \u003ci\u003eafflicted\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh right. \u003ci\u003eSuffers from\u003c\/i\u003e. You’re a humanitarian.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Underneath my KOA wristband, I feel my tiny paths going nowhere. My fingers have always been a force to be reckoned with, scratching and clawing and pinching. The wristband is an effective reminder, but it’s no match for my fingers, with their tiny little fingerbrains, determined to test my pain threshold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ask, “You ever hear that a person has to go through fire to become who they’re meant to be?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes sips her coffee, nods. “Sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ve always wanted to be strong, Miss Mendes. I just wish there wasn’t so much fire.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Victor.” It’s a whisper, barely even there. Mendes leans in, her entire presence shifting from defense to offense. “Vic, look at me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Look at me,” she repeats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Did Baz Kabongo put you up to this?” She nods slowly. “It’s okay. He did, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still, nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Let me tell you what I think happened,” she says. “Kabongo gets nervous, sees his face posted all over town, decides he’s done hiding. He talks you and your girlfriend into lying to us, saying you were in places you weren’t, at times you weren’t, with people you weren’t. He knows his only chance is an alibi, or an eyewitness saying someone else did it. And who better than two innocent kids? Am I warm?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I say nothing. I am an absolute ace at nonverbals, and every minute that passes is a win, a victory no matter how small.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m pretty good at my job,” she continues, “and while I don’t know where you were on the night of December seventeenth, I know where you weren’t. You weren’t in that house. You didn’t see that pool of blood. You didn’t see that man’s eyes go out, Victor. You know how I know this is true? If you’d seen all that, there’s no way in hell you’d be sitting in that chair right now, dicking around with me. You’d piss your pants, is what you’d do. You’d be fucking terrified.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Those fingerbrains are ruthless animals, munching on my multitudes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Kabongo is counting on you to lie, Vic. But do you know what he forgot? He forgot about Matisse. He forgot about Whitman. He forgot about art. And you know what all good art has in common, right? Honesty. It’s the part of you that knows what’s what. And that’s the part that’s gonna tell me the truth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I count to ten in my head, where Baz’s voice plays over and over like a scratched record. \u003ci\u003eLet them think what they want. But do not lie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We’ll protect you,” says Mendes. “You don’t have to be afraid. Just tell me what happened.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Diversion tactics, Vic. They will need time. And we must give it to them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I lean in to the digital recorder and clear my throat. “Every girl who drinks tea.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mendes calmly shuts the file. “All right, we’re done here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Every girl who eats raspberry scones.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She scoots her chair out from under the table, stands with an air of finality, and speaks loud and clear. “Interview between Bruno Victor Benucci III and Sergeant Sarah Mendes terminated at three twenty-eight p.m.” She pushes stop, grabs her coffee and folder off the table, and heads for the door. “Your mom should be here soon to pick you up. In the meantime, feel free to get coffee down the hall.” She shakes her head, opens the door, and mumbles, “Fucking raspberry scones.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Hackensack Police Department, Interrogation Room Three, dissolves into the Maywood Orchard, Greenhouse Eleven. I imagine: Baz Kabongo, with his borderline paternal instincts, and sleeve of tattoos; audacious Coco, loyal to the end; Zuz Kabongo, snapping, dancing in place; and I imagine Mad. I remember that moment—my moment of heartbreaking clarity when the clouds parted, and I saw everything as if I’d never seen anything at all. The truth is, I didn’t know what love was until I saw it sitting in a greenhouse, unfolding like a map before me, revealing its many uncharted territories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Sergeant Mendes opens the door to leave, I pull my hand from under the table, raise it up until the wristband is at eye level, admire those three block letters, white against the black fabric: KOA.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Walt Whitman was right. We do contain multitudes. Most are hard and heavy, and what a headache. But some multitudes are wondrous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like this one . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am a Kid of Appetite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I was in that house, Miss Mendes.” I focus on the snow-white \u003ci\u003eK\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eA\u003c\/i\u003e as the blurry image of Mendes freezes in the doorframe. She does not turn around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I was there,” I say. “I saw his eyes go out.”","brand":"Speak","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302119624933,"sku":"NP9780147513663","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780147513663.jpg?v=1742926272","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/kids-of-appetite-isbn-9780147513663","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}