“Boiled cabbage, brussels sprouts, potatoes, beans, and onions. That’s it.”

“What?” Mom said, doing a double-take.

“Mom, you said you’d cook whatever I wanted.”

“Yeah, but trust me. You’re not going to like this.” She shook her head. “Nobody likes this!”

“But I have to eat this for dinner!”

“Why?” She cocked her head to the side.

“For, um, school. Extra credit. Teacher said.”

“Your teacher said if you ate boiled cabbage, brussels sprouts, potatoes, beans, and onions for dinner, she’ll give you extra credit?”

“Yeah, well, I gotta write a report on it after,” Kona grumbled.

Mom shook her head again. “Should’ve sent you to a private school. Maybe you can go to Ridgemont for seventh,” she muttered, opening the fridge and turning on the stove.

No matter how hard Kona tried to stay awake, it always waited until he was asleep.

Shhhhhh, shhhhhhh, not settling, moving. A dry sound, like snakes, like sand, like crisp, dried leaves against a window screen.

Shhhhhh, shhhhhhh.

The bed’s dust ruffle ballooned, then lifted.

“What’s that?” croaked a voice dry like sawdust cookies, followed by a snuffling, sniffling sound, the sound of a hound on a trail or pigs tracking truffles. 

Sniff.

“What’s that,” sniff, snuff, snort—now not dry, but slobbery, hot, greedy—“What is it? Smells,” sniff, “sweet, like flowers, like,” snuff, drool, drip, “like clean.”

Kona held his breath and jammed his hands deeper into his armpits.

Sniff.

Closer, hotter, heat against his cheek.

Sniff.

Greedy.

Kona puffed out his cheeks and blew with all his might.

“Ugh! Onion! Rotten, stinking!” rasped the voice.

Snort, wheeze, gasp.

“Rancid! Not flowers! Where flowers? Want flowers! Where’s that smell?”

Hissing, chaffing, breathing deep.

“Under? Is it under?” scratched the voice.

Snuffle, sniffle, puff, truffles beneath a tree.

“Smells under.”

The edge of the bed dipped. The covers pulled away from Kona’s neck.

It was now or never. Kona clenched his stomach muscles and let one rip.

Ppppttthhhhhhhttttt!

“Phew! Oh, oh, stinky, rotten, smelly, horrible, horrible, little boy!” The bed bounced back. “Oh, woe, woe is me.” The voice a child’s whimper, the sound of a birthday present taken back, a rotted piece of maggot cake, no candles left to light.

In the dark and through his terror, Kona grinned.

A sound like sea wash kissing sand, a moving sound, shifting away from the bed, low toward the floor.

Sniff.

“What’s that?”

Snuff, puff, gasp.

“Smells like sugar and mangos and sunlight. Mine!”

Kona heard the mango cobbler pan thud on the floor, then a terrible licking sound, a greedy slurping sound, a sound made by a too long tongue.

As the pan disappeared under the bed, Kona let a last one rip, just to be sure.

There was only a little bit of mango cobbler left, he thought, but enough in the pan for tonight.

Kona glanced at his bedroom door to make sure it was still shut tight, and, tucking the covers snug around his neck, he drifted back to sleep.

In his room, Kona rummaged in the bottom of his closet and pulled out a wadded pair of boxers and worn soccer shorts, the same clothes he’d worn each night and hidden in his closet for over a month. Putting on the rank and musty clothes, he immediately felt better. It was going to be all right.

He carefully closed his closet and bedroom doors, making sure they were shut tight. Eye-balling the distance to his pillow, he set the mango cobbler on his desk chair, turned off the light, and took a flying leap into bed.

As he pulled the covers up to his chin and tucked them under his shoulders and behind his neck, he smelled his hands, clean and fresh, like flowers after rain.

Dang. Better hide ‘em in my pits.

His tummy rumbled ominously.

Looking good, he thought.

Back in the kitchen, Kona opened the fridge, picked out a piece of raw onion from a plastic wrapped bowl, and ate it for luck, rolling the juice around with his tongue. He slipped the mango cobbler off a shelf and tossed the foil cover in the rubbish can. On second thought, he reached down into the trash and pushed the foil deeper, hiding it underneath the bloody meat trays and mango peels. He tiptoed down the hallway and set the cobbler on the floor inside his bedroom, hiding it from the den.

“Kona,” Mom called, “quit fooling around.”

From the hallway, Kona watched Mom turn another page; Dad watched the game.

“I’m  going to bed now,” he announced.

“Okay,” said Mom, not looking up. “Sweet dreams.”

“Yeah, Buddy, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” said Dad.

Dad looked away from the tv. Something…something…Dad couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was…

“G’night,” said Kona.

Nothing. The moment passed.

“G’night, Buddy,” said Dad turning back to the game.

At dinner, Kona ate all the chili and only a little of the mango cobbler, even though he loved it. He knew he’d need it later.

“Kona, shower then bed,” called Mom.

Kona looked up from his computer. “Just a minute. I need—”

“Now, Kona. And hang up your towel this time. I’m not your maid, you know.”

Kona hit ctrl-S and powered down the computer. Arguing was useless. There were too many things adults didn’t get. 

In the bathroom, he ran water in the sink, wet his toothbrush, and added some toothpaste before rinsing it all down the drain. He turned on the shower and sat on the toilet lid, counting slowly to 100 hippopotamuses.

At 101, he carefully leaned into the shower, wetting only his hands, working his wash cloth into a lather and squirting shampoo down the drain before turning the water off.

Taking his wet hands, he ran them quickly through his bangs and behind his ears, brushing his thick brown hair away from his face. The built-up grease helped; his hair looked wet, at least from a distance.

Kona put on clean boxers and loose fitting shorts, ran his towel around the shower stall to dampen it, and dumped it on the floor for his mother to find.