Free Burn Girl by Mandy Mikulencak Page A

it, but now seemed as good a time as any.
    My stomach knotted in a weird way—happy and sad all at once—to know he was building the damn thing for me. I still doubted that sharing a house was enough for us to feel like a family.
    I dropped my backpack on the floor and slipped under the thin blanket covering my bed. Although I’d lived in the trailer for more than two months, every day when I came home was like visiting someone else’s house. Frank offered me money to buy whatever I wanted to make the room feel homier, but I’d never had stuff to call my own and didn’t know what I’d even buy.
    Every few days, something new would show up—a lamp, a clock, some throw pillows. Frank was trying his hardest to get me to feel some permanence, but I saw the trailer and all this stuff as his alone.
    I heard Frank in the trailer’s galley kitchen rummaging for a skillet, but the gnawing in my gut had already told me it was dinnertime. If I couldn’t taste food, it seemed unfair my body could alert me to hunger in such an obnoxious way.
    â€œI’m going to start the stir-fry now, okay?” he called out.
    This Asian food rut would have to stop. If I wanted to eat something other than rice and slimy lo mein noodles, I needed to speak up.
    â€œSure, be right out.”
    Frank had made me see a doctor about my inability to taste and smell. The specialist couldn’t find a medical reason and suggested it was a psychosomatic by-product of the trauma I’d endured in the explosion. He said that once my “mental state” improved, I’d likely regain those senses.
    Frank wasn’t patient enough to wait so he’d begun bizarre experiments with foods that were bitter, sweet, sour, salty, and savory. My taste buds wouldn’t cooperate, no matter how many different combinations he tried.
    I grabbed plates and utensils while Frank expertly juggled two serving bowls, a bottle of soy sauce, and a tube of wasabi. He pushed the screen door with his butt and we headed to the cedar picnic table. Protected by a large canvas tarp overhead, this outdoor dining room served as our largest living space since Frank used the Airstream’s living room as his bedroom and library. I sometimes did my homework at the picnic table after school while Frank continued his work on the house. On nights I’d come home late from Mo’s, Frank would often be sitting at the picnic table, nursing a beer or reading by lantern light.
    â€œArlie, I know we can beat this. We just haven’t found the right ingredient.” Rice dribbled down his chin from talking with his mouth so full.
    â€œNothing to beat,” I said. “Buy whatever’s on sale. Lamb testicles. Cow tongue. Won’t make a difference to me.”
    â€œYou really do take snark to a whole new level,” he said.
    â€œI don’t like to mince words.”
    â€œWhatever,” he said and got up from the table. “I can’t eat this crap. I made it spicy thinking you might finally taste it. I’m going to have some cereal. Want some?”
    I shook my head. “I’ll just finish this.” What did it matter anyway?
    Frank didn’t like cell phones in general, and never when we were eating. This meant I often forgot to check messages until much later in the evening. Mo had texted several times in the last hour, which wasn’t all that unusual except for the news she had to share.
    Not gonna believe this, she wrote. Nick punched Cody. Busted his lip.
    Can you believe Nick hit a blind guy????
    Helllllooooo? You there?
    Text me!
    This is about you!
    Nick was Brittany’s pathetic lapdog, but I thought he and Cody were friends. My gut told me she had to be involved. What I couldn’t figure out was how a fight with Cody had anything to do with me.
    Get over here, I texted back. With the way my stomach was somersaulting, I just prayed Frank’s latest stir-fry wouldn’t come