Lane's 1st assignment

An Afternoon Snack

“No, thank you”, I say to the large British woman towering over me, “I don’t like carrots”. The lumps in her midsection take on different shapes as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her wrinkly face is telling me that she is not happy. “It is snack time,” she projects, and proceeds to move the carrot even further into my face, “We all eat snack here.”

I wasn’t pleased. Not only does my mother force me to attend a summer day camp that I am far too outgrown for, but now I am having the one thing I hate forcefully shoved into my face. I try again.

“Thank you but, I’ll be okay without snack today.” This lady wasn’t budging. I sigh signaling my surrender and take the dreaded vegetable. She finally backs out of my personal space, keeping an eye on my next move. I sit there in Indian style, contemplating my options, British eyes piercing through my skin. “This is fucking stupid,” I think to myself as I continue to sit awkwardly on the floor, uneaten carrot still in hand. Where were all the damn granola bars like every other camp? I feel footsteps heading toward me through the floorboards. I spin around to face the monster again. She leans down to put her face real close to mine. “Eat. Your carrot.” My eyes begin to dart around the room, looking for an escape route. I knew one thing; I wasn’t getting out of there without a bite. I had to cave.

I stand up in front of her and take a breath of preparation. I bring the awful carrot to my mouth and let my teeth snap off a bite as a look of satisfaction begins to cross the large lady’s face. I start to chew the bite as she continues to watch me. The chewing seems to last forever and I finally struggle to swallow the orange mush. Relief washes over me and I relax as I head to the trashcan to discard the rest. A hand grabs my shoulder from behind me. I thought the one bite would be more than enough of a concession, but apparently not for this broad. “The whole thing,” she says to me with a cocked eyebrow.

I have had enough.

I snap off a second bite and begin to chew, the agitation building inside me. I look her straight in the face as I continue to chew until the bite has become the consistency of baby food. She seems pleased, until I let the saliva-y, carrot-y wad of disgusting out of my mouth and on to her brand new white Keds.

I think she’s pissed.

With no words and a rigid snarl, she marches over to the cordless phone to, I can only assume, call my mother. The conversation is quick. “Your mother will decide how to deal with you.”

Mom runs in a few minutes later, expecting the worst. “I don’t know how you raise your children, Mrs. Mitchell, but Lane has decided to spit half eaten carrots all over my feet.” The massive lady looks at my mom, surprised that she is not horrified. “Didn’t she tell you?” my mom asks confused, “Lane hates carrots.”