Constance
I had finally gotten settled into first grade when the principal walked in with her hand on a girl’s shoulder and announced, “Boys and girls this is Constance. She just moved to town and will be in this class. Constance, there are six empty seats, chose one.”
The Principal turned the expressionless Constance towards the class. She looked like a cartoon figure—a skinny girl with stringy brown hair, wearing a dress made from rice sacks and lace. Her socks must’ve slid down her legs to lie on her mud-streaked shoes.
Without looking around she walked down the aisle and she sat in the empty seat next to me I nodded but I wanted to hold my nose. She smelled. I knew what sweat smelled like, but she didn’t smell of sweat, she smelled a strange soap or perfume smell that I feared was going to leap off her and onto me.
We stayed at our seats for lunch and the teacher passed out little cartons of white or chocolate milk and a straw. I had a system. I took chocolate if I had meat and white milk if I had peanut butter and jelly. I lifted my desktop and took my lunch box out and the mustard smell gave away the fact that I had meat sandwich so, without looking I took chocolate milk.
Constance’s soap nearly overpowered the mustard and made me less hungry. She stared straight ahead and sipped her milk. She must have forgotten to bring her lunch.
I unwrapped the waxed paper to get at my sandwich and lifted the top slice of bread, saw the mustard and tongue along with sliced tomatoes and lettuce. It was one of my five favorites. I glanced over and Constance was still taking sips and reading from a story book. I had half the sandwich in my left hand and slid the other half on the wax paper over to Constance. She didn’t hesitate to close her story book and grab the sandwich and talk a big bite of it. “Mmm,” she said, and I took my normal small bites savoring the thickness and chewiness of the tongue and the Guildon’s Spicy Mustard.
I took out two banana oatmeal raisin cookies my mother baked and took a bite. The banana smell always hit me first and I usually get a raisin with each bite. I took the other cookie and placed it on Constance’s wax paper.
Half the room had finished lunch and was out on the playground. I grabbed the red Delicious apple, shined it on my shirt front and right before I went to take the first bite I got a whiff of Constance’s soap and put the apple down in front of her and climbed over my seat and went out to the fresh smelling air and a game of dodge ball. I feared that if my mother found out I gave half my lunch away she’d start packing me only half lunches.
Paul Beckman
The Principal turned the expressionless Constance towards the class. She looked like a cartoon figure—a skinny girl with stringy brown hair, wearing a dress made from rice sacks and lace. Her socks must’ve slid down her legs to lie on her mud-streaked shoes.
Without looking around she walked down the aisle and she sat in the empty seat next to me I nodded but I wanted to hold my nose. She smelled. I knew what sweat smelled like, but she didn’t smell of sweat, she smelled a strange soap or perfume smell that I feared was going to leap off her and onto me.
We stayed at our seats for lunch and the teacher passed out little cartons of white or chocolate milk and a straw. I had a system. I took chocolate if I had meat and white milk if I had peanut butter and jelly. I lifted my desktop and took my lunch box out and the mustard smell gave away the fact that I had meat sandwich so, without looking I took chocolate milk.
Constance’s soap nearly overpowered the mustard and made me less hungry. She stared straight ahead and sipped her milk. She must have forgotten to bring her lunch.
I unwrapped the waxed paper to get at my sandwich and lifted the top slice of bread, saw the mustard and tongue along with sliced tomatoes and lettuce. It was one of my five favorites. I glanced over and Constance was still taking sips and reading from a story book. I had half the sandwich in my left hand and slid the other half on the wax paper over to Constance. She didn’t hesitate to close her story book and grab the sandwich and talk a big bite of it. “Mmm,” she said, and I took my normal small bites savoring the thickness and chewiness of the tongue and the Guildon’s Spicy Mustard.
I took out two banana oatmeal raisin cookies my mother baked and took a bite. The banana smell always hit me first and I usually get a raisin with each bite. I took the other cookie and placed it on Constance’s wax paper.
Half the room had finished lunch and was out on the playground. I grabbed the red Delicious apple, shined it on my shirt front and right before I went to take the first bite I got a whiff of Constance’s soap and put the apple down in front of her and climbed over my seat and went out to the fresh smelling air and a game of dodge ball. I feared that if my mother found out I gave half my lunch away she’d start packing me only half lunches.
Paul Beckman
Bio: Paul Beckman is a
retired air traffic controller. His latest flash collection, Kiss
Kiss (Truth Serum Press) was a finalist for the 2019 Indie Book
Awards. Some of his stories are in Spelk, Necessary Fiction, Litro,
Pank, Playboy, Thrice Fiction, and The Lost Balloon. His published
story web site is Http://www.paulbeckmanstories.com
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