Gastropods And Paper
By: Parmona Greshan
(Bay, 6th grade)
“Mom, why do I have to have oatmeal?” I groaned, staring dumbly down at the bowl of smoke-colored, tasteless sludge with slices of banana on top. I stuck my tongue out at it, hoping that would evoke a reaction from it similar to the green glop that I had seen in the Calvin and Hobbes comics I so avidly tore through like a Christmas present.
My mother, who was slicing up some strawberries for my brother’s breakfast slush; finished chopping up the seedy fruit and turned, and placed one hand on her hip.
“Oatmeal’s good for you. Besides, I loved oatmeal as a kid. I don’t see why you didn’t get that from me.” She grumbled, and walked over to the staircase, and called upstairs for my lazy, 16 year-old brother.
“JACKSON! WAKE UP!” She screamed, placed one hand on the side of her mouth to amplify the screech. She was awakened by an equally loud and equally annoying sound that sounded to me like a dying gerbil held up to a microphone.
“I AM NOT GOING TO THAT JAILHOUSE OF A SCHOOL!!!” He screamed. Jackson is somewhat of a rebel, as my mother calls him, and is always talking about ‘fighting the power’. I think it’s a load of bologna.
“GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!!!” My mom screamed, outmatching him in loudness and ferocity in her screams, despite having a lack of reason. She then folded her arms over her chest and smiled like she had just defeated the top dog of the Mafia.
I simply scowled, glaring down at the president’s placemat that had adorned my place at the table since I was old enough to not have a phonebook digging into my butt to help me sit at the table.
My mother returned to the pot that held my breakfast death concoction, and began to stir it slowly. I heard the trudge of my brother coming down the stairs, and looked down. I didn’t want him to see me. I always tried to avoid him for fear he would accuse me of ‘submitting to the capitalist society’ or some other crap like that. I didn’t get it.
He sat next to me at the table, glowering at some imaginary force off in the distance. Probably the power or the government or something.
“Breakfast is served!” My mother said, placing my potion of doom in front of me. The stench made my stomach feel like it had been smacked upside the head with a diaper by a skunk
The slices of banana on the oatmeal looked like wet paper with yellow slugs on it. Time to ‘pull a Calvin’; as my family had begun to call my infamous signature move.
I grabbed my throat, and began to gag in a way that sounded like a goldfish that had eaten too much. I fell to the floor, my chair clattering onto its side. I began to propel myself in circles by using my legs and pushing off of the linoleum with my toes. I continued to gag, forcing my eyes to bug out and making my ‘goldfish gag’ louder.
My mother didn’t move, and the only thing my brother did was inhale his oatmeal. It made me feel sick. He inhaled everything he ate. He was like a vacuum cleaner. He didn’t even chew, and I don’t think he even tasted it. Despite being an annoying rebel, he was easy to please when it came to food.
“Jenny, you’re 13. You’ve been doing this ever since your father introduced you to Calvin and Hobbes. Curse the day he showed you ‘Attack Of The Killer Monster Snow Goons’… It’s getting quite old and boring, frankly. So, grow up, fix your chair, and EAT YOUR OATMEAL!” She demanded, smacking me on the head with a spoon.
“OW!” I groaned, rubbing the bruise on my head. I gave a grumble, and fixed my chair. I stared stupidly at the slugs, feeling livid.
“I’m not going to subject myself to this…” I groaned, tossing my head to the side. I stuck out my lip in a pout, and crossed my arms. Nearby, my brother had tossed his dishes in the sink, and was trudging up the stairs.
My mother turned the stove off, and haphazardly stacked the dishes in the sink. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, and brushed some auburn hair out of her eyes.
“Jenny, if you don’t eat that now, you’ll see it in front of you again tomorrow. That exact bowl, sitting right on top of Eisenhower.” My mom said, pointing to one of the slugs that was lying still in its paper prison.
“Fine! Just let me go to school!” I groaned, standing up. This was one of the only times I wanted to go to school. I grabbed my backpack, slipped on my shoes, and burst out the door. I waited at the bus stop, dreading the school day ahead, and what vile concoction they’d be serving in the cafeteria. Probably worse than the slugs.
When I got to school, I was relieved. They were serving pizza. Only about a 6 on the gross meter. Greasy, but good. I trudged through the day, as normal, barely listening to teachers; with the constant threat of the return of the slugs the next day. Would my mother really do that? Serve me old, cold oatmeal with soon-to-be-rotten bananas on it? I thought maybe she was bluffing, but then again, when my brother once didn’t want to eat his salad, she made him sit there and eat nothing else until he was forced to choke it down.
I stuck out my tongue, which then got me reprimanded by my Latin teacher for disrespecting her. Apparently, she had been asking me to go up to the board. Whatever. She looked like a slug, anyways, with her nasty lemon-colored top and unnaturally and scarily blonde hair.
When I got home, things seemed to be back to normal. My brother was up in his room, blasting music that I couldn’t understand the words to, due to the singer screaming at the top of his lungs, and the other band members smashing guitars and burning drum sets. My mother was reading a book in the living room, and my dad was screaming ‘FOOTBALL!’ while he watched TV. Same old family.
For supper, we had spaghetti and meatballs. I gulped it down, bothering to chew; unlike Jackson, the Human Vacuum Cleaner. My mom ate carefully, dividing her meatballs into tiny sections. My father ate the meatballs in one bite. We were talking like normal. Well, except Jackson; who was gasping for air after accidentally eating one of the peppers on his plate that was cleverly hidden into his spaghetti sauce.
I took a shower, washed my hair, and did my homework (Latin equals bardus; meaning stupid.) I talked on the phone with my best friend, Gina, and had a snack of peanut butter and celery with chocolate chips on top. Then, I went to bed.
I dreamt of giant slugs eating my homework, which made no sense, but in the dream, it seemed to connect perfectly. Then, I turned into a slug and became the queen of France, while holding an umbrella full of holes. My mind scares me sometimes.
The next morning, I was awakened by my alarm clock blaring some random rap song I didn’t know. It annoyed me. I smacked the ‘Snooze’ button as soon as I could, and turned the alarm off. I got up, stretched, and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I dressed and went downstairs as slow as possible, all whilst keeping an eye out for the papery doom that was sure to await me.
I didn’t see anything at my presidential place, and I almost gave a sigh of my relief. No oatmeal. It had been a bluff. I sat down, and looked at my mother; who was apparently ignoring me. She was slicing more strawberries, and no bananas. I gave a silent cheer. Only Jackson was having oatmeal. Thank God!
Then, the slugs squirmed onto the table, along with their papery friends. I nearly started crying.
These slugs would become my new best friends for many mornings ahead from now.