The Hunger Year
Language: en
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…