Part 1The Hunger Year

Ever since I was a child, my mother sneered at me, saying I was born with a hollow leg. She claimed I stole nutrients from my brother in the womb and fought him for the bottle the second we were born.

In middle school, to make sure my brother, Joey, grew taller than me, she only gave me half a dinner roll for supper. I was often so dizzy from hunger that I’d stare at my teachers and drool.

I couldn't help it. My teacher’s freckled face looked like a sesame seed bun—oily, warm, and golden. The sun outside the window was a giant pancake, crispy on the edges and dripping with butter. Even my seatmate smelled delicious, radiating the creamy scent of fresh milk.

After class, I’d chug water until my stomach felt like it was going to burst, yet I remained ravenous. At lunchtime, nobody reached the cafeteria faster than me.

With that desperate speed, I swept the gold medals in the school’s 400m and 1600m dashes. The coach gave me fifty bucks as a prize. But Joey snitched, and the moment I got home, my mother snatched it away.

"Everything you eat, wear, and drink costs me money! How dare you hide cash? No dinner for you tonight!"

I sat there, smelling the roasted ribs wafting from the dining table. I pretended to eat, chewing air with all my might, imagining succulent, fatty meat between my teeth. But the fantasy failed.

In the middle of the night, my stomach felt like it was on fire. I got up to use the bathroom and saw my dad’s poker change on the coffee table. Two quarters and a dollar bill. I couldn't resist. That was the start of my life as a thief.

Minimum fifty cents, maximum two dollars. I took it every few days.

I knew I’d get caught eventually. But the gas station cheeseburgers were so good! The hot dogs were so warm! The greasy fries were worth every risk.

* * *

Soon, spicy Cheetos became the trend at school. Fifty cents a bag. I didn't dare buy them. If I bought snacks, I wouldn't have money for dinner.

Between "eating well" and "eating enough," I had no choice. When the cravings became unbearable, I’d ask my seatmate if I could have his empty bag so I could dip my bread in the leftover spicy dust.

He looked shocked for a second. But from then on, he started sharing half his snacks with me.

The more I ate, the more guilty I felt. Since I had nothing to share in return, that guilt morphed into a heavy, defensive pride. Finally, I snapped. I stole a five-dollar bill. I bought eight bags of Cheetos and gave them all to him.

That evening, I went to buy a burger as usual. I saw my mom sprinting toward me, brandishing a rolling pin.

Between "fear" and "food," I chose to eat fearfully. I ran as fast as I could, stuffing the burger into my mouth with every stride. But she caught me.

"This little brat learned to steal! Everyone, look! This is the daughter I raise, and she repays us by stealing her father’s hard-earned cash!" The rolling pin slammed into my back and stomach, stroke after stroke.

"You can tell a criminal from age three. She’s hopeless!" neighbors whispered. "Good! Beat some sense into her!"

I ignored the agony in my body and the mockery in their voices. I forced the last bite of the bun down my throat, feeling the bliss of a full stomach. The fullness outweighed the pain. As my mother dragged me home, I wept tears of satiation.

At least the money was safely in my stomach. Otherwise, the beating would have been for nothing.