Page 5 of Bad Seed
“It’s not eggplant,” she chides me with a laugh.
I rub my stomach, trying to make room after the pancake breakfast, and take a drink.
Lucy gives an approving, “Ah. This Eggplant Spritzer is so much better than last year’s.”
My eyes open wide, and I calculate whether to drink the poison down or spray it all over my friend. Even though she’s wearing purple like everyone else, I choose to swallow. “But you said it’s not eggplant.”
“That’s the name. It’s just vodka, Blue Curacao, and cherry juice. It won’t kill you.”
Right. Whew. This time I taste it, enjoying the summery flavors even in October. It’s weird to get into a pumpkin spice and long scarf mood in this eighty-five-degree heat.
“You’re not allergic to cherries, are you?”
Am I?
No. I’d remember that, at least.
“Ooh.” Lucy stuffs her eggplants into her bag, then spins me around by the elbow. “She’s starting.”
Up on the grandstand, a dozen of Loomis’ residents position themselves before plates of food. They must have already finished with the children’s round. Lucy gives a huge wave, and Ann answers with a curt nod.
“Wow.” This second emcee leans close to sniff one of the plates in front of a man. “This smells delicious. What did you cook for us?”
“Eggplant Parmesan,” he grunts.
“A classic, and what about you ma’am?”
An older lady pulls the mike down to her height and shouts so hard she peaks the speakers, “Moussaka.”
“One of my favorites,” the emcee declares before moving down the line. One by one, everyone explains their eggplant dish, eyes gleaming at the competition. Their hunger for the grand prize—a riding lawnmower and leaf blower—is nothing compared to the ravenous horde waiting to run up the stairs.
The plates are flying back through the crowd. Lucy grabs one, then hands it to me. I take it without thinking, then stare dumbfounded at the paper-scalloped edge.What am I going to do with this?
“All right. Eggplant lovers, are you ready to be blown away?”
“Yes!” the crowd shouts at the stand. The red rope, the only thing keeping them at bay, starts to buckle.
The emcee nods to the teenager manning it, and he unhooks the clasp. In one great exhale, the whole herd rushes up the stage. The teenager and emcee are both blown back as people run down the row, filling their plates with spoonfuls of moussaka, eggplant parmesan, and all the other things I’ve never tried.
It smells delicious, the air thick with tomato, cheese, and spice. But every dish up there may as well be labeled with a skull and crossbones for me.
“Here.” Lucy slips off her bag and hands it to me. “Hold this for me,” she declares before molding into the stream onto the stage.
I stare down at the two purple fruits knocking about in her canvas tote. Even the bag is purple with a white stencil of the damn eggplant across every inch.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I spin around. “Are you in line?”
“No.” I wave them on. “Go ahead.”
Giddy adults shove forward, all of them eager for free food. Lucy reaches Ann’s table and spears the grilled eggplant onto her plate. The two share a laugh, and I try to join in.
“Ha ha, yes, that’s so funny!” I shout, hoping they can hear me. But instead of glancing my way, the people around me part. Eyes glare at the weirdo doing her best to be a part of something that’ll kill her.
“Are you going up there or not?” another person asks.
Taking a deep breath, I step to the side. “No, go on.”
As more people swarm Ann, congratulating her on her dish, I slip away. Back through the crowds, I wander past the chalk crawl where people ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over gardens of eggplants. At the petting zoo, a man in a full-on eggplant costume does a funny dance for the kiddos. Just as he’s leaning out, a llama lunges and nips at the eggplant’s butt. The kids roar with laughter.
