Kids of Appetite Read Online Free

boxes of generic cereals, chilled pickles, and ramen noodles. They mopped clean floors and tagged already-priced items and tapped their toes to feeble-rhythmic Muzak; they stacked soup can pyramids and hung out by shredded cheeses in the corners where fluorescent bulbs flickered. And in the center of Foodville, we stood in our own little town, the eleventh aisle, staring at frozen dairy desserts as if waiting for the ice cream to choose us.
    Baz turned the corner, pushing a half-filled shopping cart, leaning over the top of it like a weary mother of four.
    Every family has a normal, but some normal sure seems more normal than others.
    â€œAbout time,” said Coco, eagerly eyeing the ice cream. “Mad says tiramisu is a soft cake with real rum in it, like what pirates drink. Is that right? Tell the truth.”
    â€œI don’t know.” Baz removed his Thunder baseball cap andran his hand through his hair. I had seen this move before, knew what it meant. I prepared myself for the shit-storm of Coco’s discontent.
    â€œOkay, well, we have to try
that
obviously,” said Coco, pulling open the freezer door. “But we’ll need to get a second flavor, just in case soft cake ice cream sucks balls.”
    â€œSorry, Coconut,” said Baz. “It’s not happening.”
    She sighed. “Well, if it’s just the one, then—”
    â€œNo. I mean, no ice cream. Not this time.”
    Coco’s ratty red hair flung as she spun. “Repeat that please.”
    â€œI don’t get paid until tomorrow,” he said. “So this is it for today. We have to come back in the morning for Gunther’s stuff, so maybe then. Anyway . . . it’s freezing outside.”
    â€œIt’s not freezing in my
stomach
,” said Coco, turning back to the freezer. She reached for the handle, her voice slightly higher than before, laced with a thick tone of silvery virtue. “I could fit it in my jacket, Baz. No one would even know it was gone.”
    I couldn’t help but admire how someone so small could swing such heavy bullshit. The thing about Coco was, she wasn’t only skin and bones; she was survival and fight and ferocious loyalty that you just couldn’t find anywhere anymore. When Coco spoke, no matter how high-pitched, you could almost hear a muted roar lining the underbelly of each word.
    â€œ
We
would know, Coco,” said Baz. “You know my rule.”
    A towering crash sounded behind us.
    There, at the end of the aisle, a kid stood in the middle of hundreds of soup cans, once a perfect pyramid, now scattered around his feet like a demolition zone.
    â€œIt’s him,” whispered Coco. “That kid from Babushka’s. The one with a staring problem.”
    Coco was right. Before today I’d seen this kid around town maybe once or twice. He had long greasy hair and sharp blue eyes, but those weren’t his defining characteristics. He wore a backpack, blue jeans, and lace-up boots, but those weren’t his defining characteristics either. His defining characteristic was his face. For starters, it didn’t move. Not a smile, not a frown, not a single visible reaction or emotion. Except his eyes. His eyes were lively and bright, but I’m not sure I would have noticed were it not for the fact that they were currently aimed directly at me.
    A teenage girl in a hairnet approached the endcap where the soups had once been neatly stacked. “What the hell, dude? I just finished putting th—” She looked at him for the first time, and swallowed whatever words were next, instead letting out a feeble, “Oh.”
    For a second no one said anything. The employee in the hairnet bent down and started picking up the cans. “No worries, buddy. It happens, you know?”
    The kid gripped his backpack, gave me one last look, then turned and ran.
    â€œTold you,” said Coco, refocusing her attention on the solar system of