Kids of Appetite by David Arnold Page A

just—very protective of his family.”
    â€œSo Zuz is protecting you from . . . me?”
    â€œHe spies on all the Chapters for the first few days. And don’t call him Zuz.”
    â€œWhy not? You guys do.”
    â€œFirst off, Baz doesn’t. I mean, he could if he wanted. He’s earned the right. You haven’t. Not yet, anyway.”
    Vic stared at the embankment. “Okay. So how will I know I’ve earned it?”
    â€œYou’ll know.”
    It was quiet again, the two of us sitting in the echo of a song.
    â€œWhat about money?” asked Vic.
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œI mean, you have to have money to live, right?”
    â€œNot as much as they’d have you believe.”
    â€œWho’s
they
?”
    â€œYou know.
They
. Like, the government and media and shit. The consumerist mentality and our propensity to price tag happiness.” Honestly, I had no idea what bullshit I was spinning, but it sounded good saying it. “Anyway, we’ve got a few early Chapters around town who help out, and Baz’s job at Cinema Five covers the rest. He’s been saving for a while now. Plans on opening his own taxi service—Renaissance Cabs.”
    â€œCool,” said Vic. “Why a cab service?”
    I pulled my hair around to one side as Harry Connick Jr., Jr., swam lazily under our feet.
    â€œYou sure have a lot of questions,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t have many answers.”
    â€œI’ll let Baz tell you about it. It’s his thing.”
    â€œOkay,” said Vic. “What about your thing, then? Coco said you just graduated?”
    I smiled at him, grabbed his bloodied-up jeans, then stood and dusted the snow off my backside. “We should probably head back. I’ll take these for you.”
    â€œMad.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWhat’s a Chapter?”
    I turned and started back toward the row of greenhouses, Zuz close behind. “Patience, cockroach.”
    * * *
    It was a full ten minutes before Vic returned. During that time, I’d shoved his pants on the shelf next to the records, still unsure why I’d taken them in the first place. I then settled onto the couch, where I tried to immerse myself in
The Outsiders
, a feat that usually took very little prodding, but something about Vic’s song had crept inside my brain, my veins, now pulsing through my body.
    Zuz had “’Round About Midnight” by Miles Davis cranked on the turntable while Coco knelt over Vic’s backpack, digging through his stuff.
    â€œCoke, what are you doing?”
    She pulled out some textbooks, set them on the coffee table. “Checking for contraband. I mean, we don’t really know the guy. He seems nice, but what if he’s one of those army-guys-turned-Taliban?”
    â€œCoco, that’s ridiculous.” I set the book in my lap. “Vic is
not
Taliban, and whatever’s in his bag isn’t fucking
contraband
. Do you even know what that word means?”
    She whipped her hair around. “Do
you
?”
    Zuz snapped twice. He hated when we argued.
    Coco went back to searching Vic’s bag.
    â€œCoke, I’m really not comfortable with you nosing through Vic’s stuff. He could be back any min—”
    â€œAha!” she said, pulling out Vic’s jar.
    In the light of day, it was obvious what it was. Coco set the urn on the coffee table.
    â€œContraband.”
    â€œSorry,” said a small voice. It happened just as I imagined: none of us heard Vic come in. He stood by the door, staring at us. “Guess I need to stop sneaking up on people.” In a dazehe walked to the coffee table and stood over the urn like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
    â€œWell, I suppose you were right,” said Coco. “I’m a no-good street urchin.”
    We all moved toward Vic as if a massive invisible magnet pulled us in, then stood around him and peered down