Free Hungry by H. A. Swain

and dropped those slices down in a deep-fat fryer full of bubbling oil. They came out all crispy on the outside but soft and fluffy on the inside. You’d sprinkle them with a little salt, which tasted like tears of joy. Then finally, we’d dip them in something sweet and tangy called ketchup that was made from tomatoes.”
    I try to mix all those descriptions together, but my mind gets blurry. “My friend has this little machine,” I start to say, excited to tell Papa Peter about Basil’s gadget, but then I stop.
    “And what’s this machine do?”
    “Nothing. Never mind.”
    “You can tell me.” Papa leans back and crosses his hands lazily over his belly like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing better to do than listen to me.
    I wish I could tell Papa Peter. And Grandma Apple. They would probably love Basil’s scent device because they could relive all their favorite foods. But if I tell him, then my mom will have a zillion questions about how and when I met him and who his family is and where they live and what they do. So I change my tack. “Do you ever wish you could see and smell food again?”
    “Thalia!” My mom whips around and blinks at me. “What did you just say?”
    “I asked if Papa Peter ever wished he could see and smell food.”
    Mom and Grandma Grace exchange looks. “You know perfectly well that we don’t do that,” Mom tells me.
    I think about this for a second then ask, “Why don’t we?”
    Mom is at a loss for words but Grandma Grace says, “Because it’s unnecessary, not to mention illegal.”
    “Illegal?” Papa Peter’s eyebrows lift up, causing a line of wrinkles to march across his forehead. “You sure?”
    “Of course it is,” snaps Grandma Grace.
    “Under the Universal Nutrition Protection Act,” Mom adds.
    “The young people call it forno,” Grandma Grace says, and Papa Peter laughs.
    “Forno?” I ask.
    “Food porno,” Grandma Grace says.
    “Mother,” Mom protests, embarrassed.
    “She’s seventeen. She should know,” says Grandma, ever the pragmatist. “But him?” She nods at Papa, who’s giggling like a little kid. “He’s hopeless.”
    I wonder if Basil and I were actually breaking some stupid law. Did he know it was illegal? I swallow a giggle. He must have been freaking out when I told him he should turn his device into the newest form of entertainment. “But how is that illegal?” I ask.
    “Breach of contract,” says Mom, which clarifies nothing.
    Papa Peter interrupts. “Well then, I must be breaking the law in my mind right now because I’m sure thinking about french fries!”
    “Peter!” Grandma admonishes him, but I laugh.
    He closes his eyes. “Now I’m thinking of a chocolate shake. Thick, cold, creamy, chocolaty.”
    I remember the smell of chocolate. Deep and heavy, slightly bitter but sweet.
    “Watch out, here comes a doozy,” Papa says. “Call security. I’m picturing a banana split with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”
    Suddenly my stomach groans and gurgles. Papa’s eyes open wide and he laughs. “Well I’ll be darned. Did you hear that? I just made this child’s stomach growl.” He looks at me. “Let’s try that again.” He leans down close to my belly, lifts the bottom of my hoodie and T-shirt like I’m a little kid and he’s going to give me a belly blow. I try to protest, but it’s hard not to laugh when Papa Peter is being such a goofball. “Hello in there!” he calls. “How about a big plate of flaky, buttery biscuits and nice thick sausage gravy? Or a pepperoni pizza with lots of melted mozzarella cheese?”
    “Peter Alan Pike!” Grandma snaps at him.
    He sits up. “Yes, my dear?”
    “What nonsense are you telling our granddaughter?”
    He grins at me and lowers my shirt, then pats my belly sweetly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
    “I should hope not,” Grandma Grace says, turning back to the screen and her calculations.
    “I must be doing this wrong,” my mom says with the same