The wheels spun against the red counter top and the truck slammed into a tall glass of lemonade.
“You don’t stop messing with that stupid truck and I’ll flush it down the toilet,” Kathryn glared at me—she meant it. I slowly rolled my truck away from her glass, if the food didn’t come soon I might die. And now I had no way to distract myself.
I stared at my Styrofoam cup full of milk. How come I had to drink milk anyway? Kathryn got lemonade, Mom got sprite and Dad got root beer. And I got a glass of stupid milk.
Kathryn tapped her blue finger nails against the table, waiting for her cell phone to chime. She was hungry too, we had been in the car for over five hours, with a bag of carrots and some raisins Mom had packed to sustain ourselves. And now we were stuck in this lame restaurant while dad was trying to get the car fixed and Mom was outside on phone with Aunt Lou.
But the worst of it was waiting for over thirty minutes in the sticky booth for my hamburger. I was about to march in the back and cook it myself.
I slowly pulled a sugar packet out of the brown box by the ketchup bottle while Kathryn texted madly. I bit the end off the white packet and brought the milk down below the table. I emptied my fifth packet in my milk when Mom startled me.
“No food yet?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said shoving the emptied packets on the floor. Mom sat down and a waitress headed for our table with four massive burgers and a mountain of fries.
“Finally,” Kathryn muttered. I took a swig of milk, just as the waitress set our food on the table… the sugar tingled my teeth, just as Dad walked into the restaurant.
“Well Tyler, looks like you won’t have to push us to the Grand Canyon,” Dad slapped my back. I choked on the milk most of it spraying over the hot plate in front of Kathryn. She looked at her plate of soggy hamburger and milky fries. She didn’t say a word as she picked up the yellow truck and walked to the ladies room.
Otilan Sanchez looked up at his aunt Lucia. He was thirteen and had just migrated to the Mexico from Guatemala City. He was the only one in his immediate family that was able to come, as the family couldn't afford to send anyone else. His dad was a hardworking man, but had been injured at work and had lost the use of his right arm. His mom worked odd jobs or cleaning and cooking and sewing and babysitting, anything she could find. They sent Otilan so he could earn some money to help out the family. He was the oldest of five. He felt so guilty for going because he would have many more advantages here than his family had back home. Anyways, today was his birthday. Aunt Lucia handed him a package wrapped in tissue paper left over from the fruit in the market. Inside was a yellow matchbox truck. He really loved it and added it to his collection of 3 beat up little cars. Some of which lacked a wheel here or there and there were many scuffs on the paint.
ReplyDeleteAcross yet another border, Brandon Fisher, aged 10 years old opened a gift from his grandmother. It was a yellow matchbox truck, identical to the one Otilan had recieved. When he looked at it, he scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right, like I'll ever play with that thing." He said outloud. He tossed it to his bulldog, who promptly destroyed it. "Where's my next present?" He demanded.
- the flying dutch pig
Awesome, this is a great piece, love the comparison... really touching. Thanks for sharing!
ReplyDeleteI hate middle school! Why you might ask? School started this week and I am in Mrs. Butter's Reading Writing Workshop class. What's wrong with that? Well let me tell you. My name is Brendan and I am eleven years old. I also happen to be the smallest kid in the hallways, as well as the class. At least my mom let's me wear my hair over my ears so I look somewhat cool. Brad the kid that sits next to me is way taller than the teacher. How is that fair I ask? Well, it gets worse, Mrs. Butter is trying to teach the concept of Compare and contrast, like who would care? She asked for volunteers, Brad's hand shot up like a rocket. Show off. Then Mrs. Butter asked if someone else would volunteer, no one did. So Brad said, "How about him?" pointing to me. Ugh!! That big weasel. Mrs. Butter thinks that is about the grandest idea that anyone ever had. So I am standing up in the front of the classroom and Mrs. Butter draws a Venn diagram on the overhead. You know the two cirles that intersect in the middle? On the outer sides the class is suppose to say how we are sre different and in the middle how we are the same. You know what is coming don't you? That mean bossy red-headed girl named Marissa waves her hand in front of Mrs. B. "Brad is as tall as a house and Brendan is as short as a mouse." ( I will try and jam her locker later.) So on and on.. we both have brown hair and we both have jeans and tennis shoes. Then when we fill up the diagram, Marissa waves her hand and shouts, "They both have pockets; Brad's are empty and Brendan has something in his. Surprised I slipped my hand in and pulled out this stupid little yellow truck that my stinky three year old brother asked me to hold. My face feels hot and Marissa shouts "Brad looks like a middle schooler and Brendan looks like a first grader!!!"
ReplyDeletehahah great stories and imagery.
ReplyDelete