Belinda Burpwell's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Belinda Burpwell won the burping contest twelve minutes ago, and now her stomach has locked up tight as a fist. She is sprawled on her back across a low slab of stone topped with a crystal pane, the kind of platform people set out for winners to rest on. Her green belly rises in front of her like a hill. A paper plate of victory cake sits on top of it, untouched. She belches, long and flat, and does not say excuse me. The cake does not move. This is the problem. Belinda wants to keep eating. She always wants to keep eating. People telling her to slow down only makes her hungrier, and the contest crowd told her plenty. She ate two whole trays just to spite them. Now her gut has clenched so hard she cannot swallow a crumb. If she cannot fix it, the cake wins. The crowd wins. The cousin who pokes her belly and calls it a superpower wins by default, because Belinda will have stopped. She rolls her head sideways. Across the trampled grass stands a curved kiosk with glowing shelves, stacked with little bottles in every color. A remedy stand. She has seen people limp up to it after eating contests and walk away loose and grinning. Belinda sits up halfway. Her stomach punishes her for it. She burps again, sharper this time, and a cramp twists under her ribs. She lies back down on the platform and waits for the spike to pass, the way she always does when her belly hurts. The waiting is not working. She flags down a boy carrying empty trays and points at the kiosk. "The amber one," she says. "Fizzy. For cramps." He comes back with a small vial of bubbling orange liquid and a cold bottle of burp soda. She pays him with the coins tucked into her sports bra. She thumbs the glass stopper off the vial and drinks it down in one pull. It tastes like ginger and metal. She chases it with the soda. For a long moment nothing happens. Then her stomach gives, all at once, like a knot pulled loose. A burp rolls up from somewhere deep and comes out of her for what feels like ten seconds. The people nearest the platform clap. Belinda does not look at them. She reaches for the cake on her belly-shelf and takes a bite. It goes down easy. She takes another. Her stomach accepts it without complaint. She finishes the slice and looks back at the kiosk. There are more bottles on those shelves. There is more food on the contest tables, already being packed away by hands she does not know. Belinda swings her legs off the crystal platform and stands. The plate stays balanced on her belly. She burps once, loud, and starts walking toward the tables before anyone can clear them.