Chapter 1

The year my hunger was purest, I was a sophomore in high school. My mom didn’t give me lunch money. Not a dime. “You’re smart enough for honors classes, you’re smart enough to figure out food,” she’d said. So I figured it out by not eating. My stomach growled so loud during third period English, Mrs. Davison would pause, mid-sentence about Shakespeare. I’d stare hard at my textbook, cheeks burning. Lunchtime was the worst. The cafeteria buzzed. Trays clattered. Kids laughed. The air was thick with the smell of greasy pizza, fries, sometimes even a sickly sweet cinnamon from the churros they sold on Fridays. I’d find a corner, sip water from the fountain. Cold water on an empty stomach. It made a sloshing sound if I moved too fast. My head would feel light. Then I saw Jake. Jake Peterson. Rich family, easy smile, always surrounded by a crowd. He sat at a table near the window, sunlight catching his blond hair. His tray was a feast. A huge sandwich, overflowing with meat and cheese. A bag of chips. An apple. A carton of milk. Sometimes a brownie. I watched him. I couldn’t help it. My eyes locked onto that sandwich. He unwrapped it slowly. Took a bite. I could almost taste it. The bread, the turkey, the lettuce. He looked up, mid-chew. His eyes met mine. I didn’t look away. I couldn't. My hunger was a physical thing, a magnet pulling my gaze to his food. He frowned a little, a flicker of something in his eyes. Annoyance? Confusion? He looked down at his sandwich, then back at me. The other kids at his table were talking, laughing. They didn't notice. Jake kept looking at me. He took another bite, slower this time. I just stared. My stomach twisted. He put the sandwich down. He picked up half of it. The bigger half. He stood up. Walked over to my lonely corner. My heart hammered. Was he going to tell me to stop staring? He stopped in front of me. “You want this?” he asked. His voice was quiet. I stared at the sandwich in his outstretched hand. My mouth was dry. “Can I?” My voice was a croak. He nodded. “Yeah. I always get too much.” I reached out, my hand trembling a little. Took the sandwich. “Thanks,” I mumbled. He just nodded again, then went back to his table. I unwrapped it. The smell of deli meat and fresh bread hit me. I ate it fast. Too fast. Each bite was heaven. I didn't look up until it was gone. Later that day, in the hallway, I saw him by his locker. He was stuffing a math textbook into his bag, a frustrated look on his face. I knew he struggled with calculus. I’d heard him complaining about it. I walked over. “Hey,” I said. He looked surprised. “Oh, hey.” “Thanks again for the sandwich.” “No problem.” He slammed his locker shut. “This math is gonna kill me.” An idea sparked. A desperate one. “I’m good at math,” I said. “Really good.” He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” “I could help you. If you want. With calculus.” He stared at me for a moment. “You’d do that?” “Yeah.” I tried to sound casual. “Maybe… you could share your lunch sometimes?” A slow smile spread across his face. “Deal,” he said. “You save me from failing calculus, I save you from starvation. Sounds fair.” He didn't know how close to starvation I actually was. But it was a start. A lifeline.