Chapter 15
Appendix H—Blog Post
By: Emmett Truesdale
It was part of my mom and dad’s custody agreement that my sister and I would spend every other weekend with Dad and my older half brother Chris at Dad’s condo in the city. The older we got, the less frequently Abby joined us; Dad’s place was cramped, and he and Abby butted heads.
A registered special inspector for construction sites, Dad was as structured and organized as my mom was loose, as spendy as she was bargain-savvy, as health-conscious as she was indulgent (excluding, of course, the two bottles of merlot he put away every night).
It was hard to imagine the two having ever been married, but then again, the marriage hadn’t lasted long.
Dad didn’t keep much food in the house, so when I came over the first thing he’d do was take me to Vons and let me pick out what I wanted—Pop-Tarts, tortilla chips, cookies.
Even better, I could play my Game Boy in peace, disappear into the streets of Fortree City, and battle gym leader Winona for the Feather Badge.
Skarmory used Sand Attack! Vileplume’s accuracy fell.
Vileplume used Leech Life. It’s not very effective!
For those of you non-Pokémon people, every Pokémon has a type, which reflects their natural habitat and what special attacks they can perform.
Electric, fire, grass, rock—there are dozens, each with their own strengths and vulnerabilities.
Like the character Misty from the original show, water-type Pokémon were my specialty.
I’d grown up in the water. Almost every day I spent at Dad’s included a visit to the community pool, me doing cannonballs and secretly pretending to be a merman while he sat in the hot tub with a can of Coors Light.
He and Chris were surfers, so often Saturdays were spent at Tourmaline Beach.
Dad would go out on his longboard, and I’d wade out until the water was up to my chest. Jumping around in the waves, I’d imagine I was joined by my favorite water types: Staryu, a starfish Pokémon with a red-gem core; and Goldeen, an elegant fish type with sleepy eyes and a horn protruding from her white-and-orange head.
Happy to be out of their Pokéballs, they showed off their agility in the water, nourished by the sea, like I was.
One day, a boy my age and his younger sister appeared beside me in the surf. The little girl looked at me, making a face.
“Why do you have your shirt still on?” she said, scanning the wet T-shirt clinging to my torso.
I pulled it away from my skin and it inflated like a balloon, hiding the lines of my body in a way that felt safer. “I don’t like taking it off.”
“Why? Boys are supposed to take off their shirts.”
I wished I had the powers of my favorite Pokémon, Sobble, which turned invisible whenever its skin touched water.
“Well?”
Her brother leapt over a wave. “Because he’s fat, Kayla.”
Without even looking, I could feel Staryu and Goldeen surface beside me. Could feel them quivering with anger, waiting for my command. The words buzzed at the tip of my tongue: Do it, Staryu. Use your Water Gun!
I imagined Staryu leaping into the air, taking aim at the brother and sister, blasting them with a jet of water.
Great job. Now, Goldeen, show them your Horn Attack!
In my head, she skated over the waves, frilly tail fin dancing behind her as she lowered her head. KABAM!
Goldeen used Horn Attack. Critical hit!
“What the hell?” the boy shouted. His arm was bleeding. “You just scratched me!”
“No I didn’t,” I shot back. Surprised but also pleased.
It was like I’d brought the Pokémon to life with my mind.
Like I at last had someone fighting in my corner.
In November 1999, to coincide with the theatrical release of Pokémon: The First Movie, Burger King launched a line of kids’ meal toys that, in time, would go down in infamy as the one that ended in the deaths of two children and a national recall.
But I didn’t know that when in 2004 my mom and I were browsing a local thrift shop for holiday décor and I spotted half a dozen of the toys on the shelf, each collectible Pokémon encapsulated in a plastic Pokéball.
I begged my mom for them, but my tenth birthday had just passed and Christmas was just over a week away, a dead zone for frivolous buying.
Still, it ended up being a pretty decent Christmas.
We spent Christmas Eve at Dad’s house—he got me the new Pokémon LeafGreen Version for my Game Boy—and Christmas Day at home, Mom making a big fuss of everything, buying too many presents and cooking way too much.
In my stocking I found two of the thrift-shop Pokéballs and a card from my grandma with another fifteen bucks.
Despite all the amazing gifts I’d received, I was desperate to return to the shop when it reopened a couple of days later, but Hank had to work and Mom and Abby were out running errands. Unwilling to wait, I walked the mile and a half to the shop.
Returning home with my new battle partner, I stopped by the kitchen on my way upstairs, more out of habit than anything else. Might as well, while Hank was still at work.
Nothing in the fridge grabbed me, so I tried the pantry, where I found a package of two orange Hostess Cupcakes.
No. Anything but those. Since he’d broken down and begged for my forgiveness, Hank had mostly laid off me, but I could see in his eyes that it wasn’t easy for him.
He still didn’t like it when I ate, and the disappearance of his precious cupcakes for a second time was certain to send him over the edge.
I tried to make do with safer options: Cheez-Its, Ruffles, a handful of salted peanuts, again sampling from open boxes and cans, taking only as much as wouldn’t be missed. But now that I’d gotten my salt, my body demanded sugar.
The cupcakes whispered to me, We’re all there is. Go on, eat us. He might not even notice. And even if he does, he promised to be nice.
I wasn’t sure I believed that, but who was I kidding? Trying to fight a craving as strong as this never worked. Sooner or later I was going to eat the damn cupcakes.
As I reached for the pack, a voice spoke behind me.
“Fat pig.”
I jumped back, a cold tremor rattling up my spine.
It was Hank. His jaw was clenched, his lip curled in a little sneer.
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, pig.”
“I’m not a pig!” My grip tightened on the toy Pokéball still clutched in my hand.
“No self-control. You’re an animal.”
“That’s not true.” I was so angry I threw the ball down on the floor like a challenge. Bulbasaur, I choose you!
“I look at you and want to throw up.”
Hank used Poison Sting. It was super-effective!
Emmett was hurt by poison.
Tears of frustration slid down my cheeks. He was right—I was going to eat it—but I would’ve felt embarrassed and ashamed whether he caught me or not. Why did he have to be so hurtful about it?
I imagined Bulbasaur jumping up off the floor and launching herself at him, tentacle-like vines poised to strike, a cartoon vein throbbing out of her forehead.
I wished she were real. I wished they all were, Sobble and Zangoose and Wobbuffet.
Just like I wished my mom’s threats were real, and Hank’s promises that he would change, that things would be different.
But that hope was as imaginary as my pocket monsters.
He stepped toward me.
Emmett is paralyzed! He can’t move!
Walking past me into the pantry, he grabbed the cupcakes. “Come on.” He pulled me down the hall by the back of the collar, his voice a taut chirp. “If you’re hungry for a snack, then you’ll have a snack.”
I was so confused, I barely resisted. He shoved me into the bathroom, facing the mirror, and held out the cupcakes. “Here.”
“What?”
I flinched at the cold surprise of his hand against my stomach. He was grabbing my shirt, wrenching it up over my head, exposing my naked belly and boobs.
“Eat them,” he said. “Watch yourself in the mirror.”
“N-no.” I crossed my arms over my stomach, ashamed. It had been years since anyone had seen me shirtless.
When I wouldn’t take the package, he tore it open with his teeth. “You’re gonna eat these cupcakes, sport,” he said, pulling them free from the cellophane.
“I said no—!”
Seizing his opportunity, he smashed a cupcake into my open mouth. Panicking, I grabbed his hand and bit.
“Argh!” He ripped his hand back. “Frick!”
I’d gotten him good. Blood dribbled down his fingers and dripped onto the linoleum. The mirror showed a bit of it smeared across my lower lip.
I could taste it, mingled with the synthetic zing of the orange, the mallow sweetness of the cream filling, that bitter coppery tang like old pennies. Before I realized what I was doing, my tongue slid out and licked.
Hank backed out of the bathroom, his face shining with horror. “Monster.”
I relished his fear. I’d had my first taste, and I liked it.
Maybe I didn’t need a Pokémon to defend me. Maybe I was all the monster I needed.