Teeth by Hannah Moskowitz

could say the same thing about that cute kid you were holding.”
    Well, shit.
    I look away.
    His voice is quiet. “It’s not like I can have my own babies, you know? It’s not like there are girls like me. Or anyones like me. And I don’t even have the proper equipment. You know that. The fishermen sure as fuck do.”
    Now I look at him again. “The fishermen just rip at you.”
    And fuck, he lets them because he’s dying to be touched. I know that because I know that feeling.
    So I put my hand on his arm, of course I do, before I even register that he might not want that this second, but he fucking leans in to it, then shakes his head a little.
    He says, “The fishermen just rip at me, but we’re not talking about that right now.” He holds up the fish in his hand as much as he can while still keeping it in the water. “You see him, this little thing, this trusting little thing? These guys are sort of . . . all I have.”
    This would probably be a good time to say, You have a sister, and I made out with her. But I can’t tear myself away from that fish in his hands, its empty animal stare. It seesjust as well as I do, but I don’t want to think about that. But I am.
    But then Teeth is looking at me with these swamp green eyes and going, “So it’s time to stop eating my siblings, okay? Please. I’m saying please.” He swallows. “Magic word and all that.”

eleven
    “JUST MAYBE WE CAN START WEANING HIM OFF, IS ALL I’M saying.”
    Mom picks up a cabbage and examines it. “Will you eat cabbage?”
    “If you fry it in bacon.”
    She makes a face, but she puts it in her basket and pays anyway. I wonder what happens when we run out of money. We’re going to have to find something to sell.
    “Weaning him off, Mom.”
    “It feels too risky right now, Rudy. We’re seeing so much improvement.”
    Mr. Gardener, the fat old man who lives closest to us,bumbles past on his way to the homemade newspaper stand and shoves me stomach-first into the desk of the produce booth. I wince. Mr. Gardener ignores me and starts yelling at Mrs. Lauder, the produce lady, “I’m not paying fifty for that!” but he will, we all know he will, because every week he does. Eventually.
    Sometimes it’s like we’re all playing these small parts in a play, and our job is to show up every Tuesday and say the same two lines, and go home.
    My role is to scan the ocean for the fishboy until Fiona comes and handles me. I already see her watching me from her standard spot on the edge of the cliff. I think a strong wind could push her off. She winks at me. She always does.
    I turn back to Mom. “So why would he go back to being sick once he’s well?”
    “The same reason we couldn’t take him off medicine on good days. It’s for maintenance.”
    “The medicine didn’t work.”
    She laughs like she doesn’t mean it. “That’s pretty much the point, Rudy.”
    “Yeah, and now he’s better than he’s ever been.”
    “Exactly why we can’t risk halting his progress now.” She picks up one of the fish we bought with both hands and tips it back and forth, checking its weight. It’s facing me, eyes round and smooth as marbles. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s dead, and it can’t see me.
    I say, “I’m scared I’m becoming a vegetarian.”
    “You had three hamburgers yesterday.”
    “No, like, mentally becoming a vegetarian.”
    “And why’s that such a bad thing?”
    “Because vegetarians annoy me.” I’m watching her put that fish into her tote bag, and I can’t stop feeling like I’m going to throw up. I wish that one had swum away. I don’t know.
    Mom says, “You sound just like your father sometimes.”
    I wish I had a reason to think that it’s more okay to eat them than it would be to carve up the fishermen and suck at the insides. I wish that was the cure Dylan needed.
    No. I don’t care about the fish, end of story. I haven’t lost my knowledge that fish are fish, and whether or not they hug