Free Kids of Appetite by David Arnold Page A

to . . .
    Mad was a map.
    And I was Magellan.
    I plotted my course, dreamed of uncharted territories and the glories found in each valley and crevice. I dreamed of the sloping, sensual summit, and of mounting its zenith.
    â€œYou can sleep on that,” said Coco quietly.
    I am a Super Racehorse
.
    â€œWhat?” I said in a breath.
    â€œThe couch.” She pointed toward Mad. I stood there like a sideways hug, wondering if the couch came with the girl.“Chapters get the couch,” said Coco, tossing a bag of beef jerky to Mad.
    I took a deep breath. “And what exactly
is
a chapter?”
    â€œNot chapter,” said Coco. “Chapter. With a capital
C
.”
    â€œHow do you know I didn’t say it with a capital
C
?”
    â€œI could hear it in your voice.”
    Nzuzi grabbed a metal watering can and danced up and down each aisle of plants, watering as he went.
    â€œOkay, fine.” I cleared my throat. “What exactly is . . . a Chapter?”
    â€œ
Patience
, cockroach,” said Coco.
    â€œGrasshopper,” said Mad.
    Coco raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
    â€œPretty sure.”
    Coco shrugged. “
Patience
, grasshopper.”
    . . .
    The kids were more than just a gaggle. They were puzzle pieces, a well-packed trunk, as improbably organized as the improbable shelves in their improbable habitat. I stood there, wiping my leaky mug, a circle-peg-square-hole type guy saying sideways-hug type things like
oh
and
what
. Less a puzzle piece, more the box it came in.
    I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my Mets sweatpants. Dad called them my Metpants, which I used to hate.
    Now? Shit. Missed it.
    â€œYou said there might be somewhere for me to change . . . ?”
    â€œRight.” Mad hopped off the couch. “Let’s go. I could use a smoke anyway.”
    Metpants in one hand, I picked up my backpack with the other and was about to follow, when Coco said, “What d’you think, we’re gonna steal your stuff? Poor loathsome urchins that we are.”
    I pulled my iPod and Visine out of the side pocket, put the bag back where it was, and tried not to imagine Coco stuffing her grimy little hands inside Dad’s urn. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
    Coco smiled theatrically, put her hand on her heart. “Your vote of confidence means the world to us. Truly, Spoils. Actually, hey, you got a phone in there? With games and stuff?”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Left it at home.”
    Mad waited by the front door, rainbow coat on, hands stuffed into pockets. The knit cap was back too, and I had a sudden desire to paint her. I wasn’t an artist, so much as an admirer of art—just good enough to know I was no good at all.
    She pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and stuck it behind her ear. Normally, I found smoking to be quite disgusting. However, it suddenly seemed sexy, though not in that sexy-smoker type sexiness. Mom and Dad used to watch
Casablanca
about once a week (which I used to hate, now I miss, etc., etc.), and the idea of Mad smoking felt more like that. Like a
Casablanca
type sexiness.
    I don’t know.
    At that exact moment I wasn’t really thinking with my heart
or
my brain. I was thinking with the deck gun of my USS
Ling
.

MAD
    Drag
.
    Blow
.
    Calm
.
    â€œHey, Harry Connick Jr., Jr. What’s the word on the stream?” Honestly, had the bloated thing not been upright, I would have assumed it was dead. I dangled my legs off the edge of Channel à la Goldfish and waited for Vic to finish washing up and changing. He’d been pretty surprised by the available amenities, and I can’t say I blame him. Unlike the greenhouse accommodations, though, these amenities were highly unauthorized. Gunther had no idea we’d figured out a way through the window and into the gift shop bathroom. Not that he had any reason to get upset; I couldn’t remember the