Fall 2009

Bologna

by Amanda Gomez

I took the bus to school during my fifth grade year. At times I would miss the bus on purpose so that my mother would cook me fluffy blueberry pancakes. One morning I took my time getting dressed.

“Maybe Mom will make pancakes and eggs today,” I thought. I slowly tied my Strawberry Shortcake shoelaces.

At 7:30, the time the school bus stopped next door, I ran outside but saw the bus pulling away. I ran a little faster, just enough to make it seem like I was trying to catch up. I stopped running when the bus turned the corner of the street.

“I’m such a good actor,” I thought. I tried not to smile walking back to the house. I entered the house, removed my sweater and turned to yell, “Mom, I…” My father was cooking on the kitchen stove. He was frying eggs and a slice of bologna. I sat down at our kitchen table and sighed, “I missed the bus again.” My father sat down with a huge plate of eggs, bologna and toast. He jabbed his eggs with his fork and took large bites.

“I’m hungry,” I told my father.

“Then get some cereal.”

“But I want eggs.”

“Too bad,” my father mumbled with his mouth full of food. “That’s what you get for missing the bus.” I watched him eat sloppily.

“I’m not your mother, you know,” he said. “I don’t fall for your bologna.” Egg yolk slid from the side of his mouth.

I stood up and walked to the pantry. There were only generic Fruit Loops. They were several years old. I grabbed the bag of cereal and poured some into a plastic bowl. I opened the refrigerator and realized my father was drinking the last of the milk. He slurped. I skipped breakfast.

My stomach growled on the drive to school. My father and I didn’t talk. He only said, “That was one good breakfast,” and burped. His burp made the entire car smell like bologna. I tried to hold my breath. I held my breath for as long as possible before I had to smell the baked bologna in the car again. I tried to roll down the window but forgot about the child locks. I struggled with the window switch and pushed the button up and down frantically, hoping by some miracle the window would lower. Then my father turned to me and smiled, pieces of bread still stuck between his teeth.