There’s an old man hovering around his table in the corner of the Cracker Barrel.
His multiple plates are empty—except for a few lingering scraps of food. Empty cups pile up in the remaining space while his eyes rove over the current guests. Once in a while, he stands up to get a better view. I tell Momma he kinda looks like a long-necked bird, but that’s a rude thing to say, so I apologize to him in my head. It’d be weird to walk over just to say, “Sorry I told my mom you look like a bird.”
Instead, I stare back at the plate in front of me. Shift my weight onto one hip; feel the building pressure and eventual pop! of the other. Eggs and flavored pancakes, with a side of bacon. Uneaten, despite the warm, wafting scents.
I tried to eat; I promise, I did. The few bites I did have were so good. It just makes my stomach hurt so much and I don’t know why. The eggs might be safe. Momma’s eggs never cause any pain, and scrambled eggs don’t (shouldn’t) have that many ingredients. It’s just an egg and some salt. So the problem must be the bacon or the pancakes. More likely the pancakes. But I’ve waited all week for them, and we were at the doctor’s office for so long. I’m starving—this was meant to be my little treat.
The old man marches in our direction, much faster than I thought someone of his age could move. Momma’s shoulders tense up as he stops right next to my chair.
“I have to say, I am very disappointed by your attitude.”
I stay silent. How else am I supposed to respond to a random old man in a Cracker Barrel?
“You’re sitting here with a plate full of food, scowling. Not to mention your posture. You’ve got a good life compared to the kids in the foreign lands. Don’t you know there’s war out there? I’ve been there. Those kids go hungry every day and you’re sitting here frowning in expensive ripped-up jeans. Teens these days don’t—”
“I’m ten.”
Momma puts down her silverware far too gently, starts talking in her angry voice, but I’m not really listening anymore. I’m trying to straighten my back and fold my jeans over my knees. The pressure hurts, and my kneecaps slide back and forth if I keep my legs bent. I can’t tell the old man that, though, because he’ll assume I’m making an excuse. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be so young and told you have a genetic disorder that will cause you pain the rest of your life. I’m going to have to quit dancing.
Hence, the special pancakes.
He bows his head toward Momma, compliments my dirty shoes. Backs away and saunters out the door.
I look down at my pancakes and bacon—back straight, jeans held in place over my knees—and beg the hunger to go away.
***
There’s a group of friends sitting at a table around me.
They’re devouring burgers that don’t fit into their hands and wings that are smeared in sauces made with the fructose, onion, garlic, and disaccharides that I’ve learned to avoid like poison. I settle my hands on the table like a begging dog, hoping the pose will mask my empty spot and make the waiter forget that I didn’t order. There’s money tucked in my fingers—the promise of a tip. I didn’t know how to handle the scowl he directed my way, and I couldn’t very well say that this is the only restaurant the others even think about choosing, despite my hardly ever ordering anything. The last thing I ate was some crackers and cheese nine hours ago, and they know this. Here we are anyway.
My warped reflection stares back at me from my glass of water. Everyone else has “better” drinks, but the aspartame in soda gives me migraines, and the gob tons of sugar in tea are not worth days of bloat and stopped digestion. And really, I shouldn’t have to drink bitter, unsweet tea that I don’t like just so my empty spot and sweating water at nine-thirty in the evening doesn’t look questionable next to the overflowing plates around me.
At least the friends don’t care. My nonexistent meals are an inside joke, and I’ve learned to say nothing when someone eats my leftovers (on the rare occasions I order something out of sheer hunger) because they all know I won’t finish.
Except: I’m still hungry.
I smile and nod when they glance too long at my half-filled plate, because the food makes my stomach contort and bubble and I don’t want to be the only one walking away with a to-go box. I watch them eat the food that I paid for and laugh about my tiny appetite and tiny waist.
I like being involved. I like being talked to.
I weigh myself three times a day and brag about my little meals. Cue laughter. At me, with me.
I’m so hungry.
There’s so little I can eat, and they don’t understand the difference between “intolerance” and “allergy.”
One of them has allergies. No one minds.
I’m just a basic white girl with “no taste.”
It’s all right, though. I’m too afraid to tell them otherwise.
***
There’s a group of friends at a table—different friends and a different table.
I’m placed in one of the outermost seats, but only because they know I’m claustrophobic.
It’s the same restaurant as always, because they know this food won’t make me sick.
I eat what I want, however much I want. No one laughs. No one hopes for my leftovers.
There aren’t any leftovers.
The hunger finally stops.
Amber Budd (she/her) was diagnosed as a preteen with EDS, POTS, and MCAS and has been weaving her medical experiences into stories ever since. She graduates from Lindenwood University in May ’25 with a Creative Writing BA and will begin her Creative Writing MFA in the following fall. Amber lives with her three cats, who serve as her live-in beta readers.
Website: amberbuddauthor.com
Instagram: @amberbuddwrites
Twitter: @amberbuddwrites