"Papa."


"Win. Crush them. Be the king."


Papa Bread Trumpet spoke the words we had heard a thousand times. In the Trumpet family, victory was the only law.


Then Papa turned to Pakdonald.


"Make it fast, Pakdonald. Or the rent on this place might go up."


My old man runs the housing developments all around here. In Queens, he is the king.


Soon three trays, stacked high with Big Packs and nearly spilling over, landed on our table.


Mama Macaron, still fussing with my shirt, froze at the sight of the mountain. I reached for the first Big Pack, ripped the wrapper, and tore into it like a Tasmanian Devil.


The King of Queens smiled, delighted.


"Good, Donut. Crush Carbonara. Be the king."


Ten, twenty—I kept knocking them down.


Next to me, my brother Bread Junior asked, worried:


"Donut, did something happen at school?"


"The music teacher doesn't get rock at all. He made us sing some boring garbage. So I sang it Elvis-style. The whole class went wild. But then he said I wasn't keeping the four-beat. So I was gonna slug him. Then that girl jumped in, whining about cheating. So—"


"You hit a girl? Seriously?"


"Didn't have to. Whatever happens, I win. Believe me."


Of course, I'd never admit I'd gone for the punch, taken a cross-counter, and ended up sprawled flat on the floor.


Just remembering it made me sick.


So I shoved another Big Pack into my mouth.


If I could finish all 101 burgers, this whole thing would be wiped clean. That humiliating moment—gone. That was how I chose to fight this fight.