Chapter Four - Everything I Touch Turns to Tacos

CHAPTER FOUR

Everything I Touch Turns to Tacos

AT FIRST, MAX didn’t notice.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, taco.
He picked up his phone, taco.
He reached for the door handle, TACO.

Soft shell.
Every time.
Warm. Steamy. Perfectly folded.
And it smelled amazing.

But it wouldn’t stop.

Max screamed into his hoodie sleeve, taco.
He tried to grab his bike, taco.
He hugged his mom, TACO.
(She was fine. Just confused and a little hungry.)

Everything. He. Touched.

TACO.

He tried using his other hand, his right hand.
Totally fine. Not taco-powered.
But his left?
That thing was cursed.
Taco Touch™ activated 24/7.

He wore oven mitts.
He duct-taped his hand inside a shoebox.
He even tried sitting on it until it fell asleep.

No use.

Lefty was a walking taquería.

It was fun… for like an hour.

Kids at school loved it.
Max was a legend.
He handed out free tacos in gym class like it was Halloween.

But soon… it got weird.

He couldn’t do homework.
Couldn’t pet his dog.
Couldn’t high-five. Couldn’t draw. Couldn’t text.
Every time he tried?

Taco. Taco. Taco.

His room smelled like a Tex-Mex explosion.
The ants loved it. His mom didn’t.

Max was falling apart.

And worst of all…

He couldn’t ride the Nacho Rocket.
Because the handlebars?
You guessed it.

Taco.