“Okay,” I said.
I washed up, dragging it out. My hands red and raw by the time I finished drying them. Still, part of me was ready for dinner, even a salad. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. After all that exercise, I was starved.
My mouth fell open as I entered the kitchen. The table was laid as if for a king. Every dish Hank had previously flaunted was present and then some: cheeseburgers, French fries, spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, pizza, burritos, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese. All my favorite foods in the world.
He was taunting me. He would make me watch him eat all this, as punishment for sneaking food. But in front of my seat, instead of the expected bowl of salad, was an empty plate. The glass didn’t even have water in it.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Hank said, approaching the table with mashed potatoes and gravy.
“What is all this?”
“Dinner. Just thought with all that walking, you might’ve worked up an appetite.” He sat, scooted his seat up to the table. “Don’t tell me you already ate?”
I didn’t speak. He served himself from a bowl of salad, the lone spot of green. His lips were stretched into a smile, but his blue-green eyes shone dull as sea glass.
“Sit.”
I was too nervous to move.
“Sit down!” he roared, pounding the table.
I sank hurriedly into my seat.
“Serve yourself. Eat.” No longer yelling, but the pretense of a happy family meal was gone.
I filled my plate, taking a burger and a box of fries, two pieces of fried chicken, a slice of pizza.
I ate them down quickly.
“Good job, sport,” Hank said, returning to his good-stepdad voice, reaching over to clap me approvingly on the shoulder. “I knew you had some room left in the tank.”
My skin crawled at the place where he touched me. He seemed to know it, letting his hand linger.
At last he pulled it back and picked up his fork.
“Why don’t you have some more.”
I filled my plate again, ate.
Halfway through third helpings, my gut’s soothing fullnessturned sharp and uncomfortable. I slowed but didn’t stop, finishing what was in front of me, as I was programmed to do.
“More,” Hank said.
“I’m getting full—”
“More.” Another slam. The dishes leapt.
Head bowed, I took some salad, hoping that would go down more lightly. It hurt.
“More.”
Genuinely sick now, I stared at the food, then took the smallest scoop of mac. “Here, let me help you with that,” Hank said, taking the spoon from me and scooping a gigantic portion on my plate. Another burger, more chicken.
“I can’t—”
“You’re gonna eat it,” he cut across me, burying the plate under a mountain of food. “That’s what happens when you don’t know when to stop. You eat and eat until you die.”
Fear clenched my heart like cold latex hands. I was certain now he was going to kill me.
