The Boy You Starved for Him novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Seventy-Five Dollars
Quinn asks his family for bus fare home, is mocked in the group chat, borrows it from a diner owner, and collapses on the train until a paramedic tells his mother to come or pick him up from the morgue.
On the first of every month, my brother posted a screenshot of his bank deposit to the family chat.
Dexter always wrote the same thing under it.
"Thanks, Mom and Dad! I'll make it last."
Then Mom would tag me.
"Where's Quinn? Not even a thank you?"
So I typed it, every time.
"Thank you, Mom and Dad."
After the divorce, they had promised each of us $1,500 a month, $750 from each of them.
Dexter got his.
I had not seen a cent of mine since September.
By the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, my bank account held four dollars and twelve cents.
The bus home cost seventy-five.
I called Mom and asked her to wire it.
My voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
"You get fifteen hundred a month, Quinn," she said. "You blew it, and now you want bus fare? If you don't want to come home, stay away."
"Mom, I swear I never got a dollar."
She hung up on me.
My nose started to bleed onto the screen.
I pressed a napkin to my face and the family chat lit up.
Mom had tagged me.
"Some people know how to play the victim. Five minutes ago he was begging for seventy-five dollars."
Dad wrote under her.
"No sense of responsibility. Dexter never causes a tenth of this drama."
Dexter wrote last.
"Quinn, you're a freshman now. Stop dumping your problems on Mom and Dad."
I typed with numb fingers.
"I never received any allowance."
Mom answered at once.
"Three thousand dollars doesn't just grow legs and walk away."
"Quinn?"
Hallie from my biology lecture was standing there with a hard-shell suitcase.
"Why are you still here? Your flight's tonight."
"What flight?"
"Dexter told the whole lounge your dad bought you two plane tickets."
Dad had bought one ticket, and it had Dexter's name on it.
I called Dad and asked for a ticket too.
He said even acting broke had limits, and he hung up.
Dexter lived in the north campus suites, and he hadn't left for the airport yet.
I walked there with my head down.
He was zipping a leather duffle when I reached his door.
Two phones sat on one charger on his desk, a white one and a black one.
His two roommates looked up from their laptops.
"Dexter," I said, and kept my eyes on the floor. "Can you lend me seventy-five for the bus? I'll pay you back when my shift check clears."
He sighed.
"Mom and Dad wire your money on the first. What are you even doing with it? You're eighteen, Quinn. Learn some self-control."
His roommates looked at my frayed hoodie and the sneakers split at the toe.
My face burned.
"My Uber's downstairs," Dexter said.
He took both phones off the charger and walked past me.
Two months earlier an ER doctor had told me to take my pills and eat three meals a day, or next time I might not wake up.
My pill bottle was empty.
That night I carried plates at Hendry's Diner by the highway, because holiday shifts paid triple.
Norman, the owner, caught me at the back door wiping my eyes on my sleeve.
"Hey. It's Thanksgiving Eve. Why aren't you on your way home?"
"I'm seventy-five short for the bus."
Norman took the cash from the register.
Then he pulled another fifty out of his own wallet and pushed it into my hand.
"Go. Run."
I ran eight blocks and got the last standing-room ticket on the night train.
I sent the family chat a picture of it.
"I made it. I'm coming home."
An hour passed.
Then Dexter posted a laughing face.
"A commuter train? Flights are two hundred bucks. Drop the act."
I stood in the gangway between two cars, holding a handrail.
The edges of my sight were going dark.
Near midnight, Dad called on FaceTime.
Mom's voice came through before the picture did.
"Where are you? Dinner's been cold for an hour!"
The screen showed our old dining room, warm and bright.
Dexter sat at the head of the table with a slice of pecan pie.
"Mom, Dad, I got you these with my allowance savings," he said, and pushed two wrapped boxes across the table.
Mom beamed at him.
Then she turned the phone back to me, and she wasn't smiling anymore.
"Your brother's here. Where are you?"
"Two more hours," I said. "I'm standing. I feel sick. Could one of you meet me at the station?"
"Here we go," Mom said. "Ruining Thanksgiving before you walk in."
"Marla, is he sick?" Dad asked.
"He's doing another fast," Dexter said. "Whenever he's out of money, he needs medicine."
Dad's face went flat.
"Then don't come at all."
The call ended, and the screen showed me my own face, pale and smeared with blood.
I didn't try to call them back.
I was done asking.
The train hit a bend, and my knees folded.
The cold floor came up fast.
Voices I didn't know shouted over me, and a flashlight hit my eyes.
Someone dialed the last number on my phone.
"Ma'am, your son has collapsed on my train," the conductor shouted into it. "He's unresponsive!"
My mother's voice came back small and tinny from the speaker.
"Glenn, listen to this. He's staged an ambulance now. Tell him I'll Venmo him, and tell him to stop the performance."
A paramedic took the phone out of the conductor's hand.
"Lady," he said. "Your son's blood pressure is barely there, and his organs are shutting down from starvation."
He paused for half a breath.
"Get to Valley Regional in thirty minutes, or you'll be picking him up from the morgue."
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