Strawberries for snack time

I am not like you, you are not like me

I knew a girl in elementary school. We would both bring strawberries for snack time. Bright, fluorescent, red strawberries with sharp green leaves. Sharper than our pencils after a couple seconds in the electric sharpener at the back of the classroom. Leaves greener than that one polo my friend I don’t talk to anymore would wear. He loved apples. Fuji apples. The same apples I buy now from the grocery store.

But back then I would bring strawberries, and she would bring them too.

In small Ziploc bags that some kids would fill with air and burst. Attention is an innate desire. I made sure to not eat the sharp green leaves. After every bite, I inspected it. I made sure I had left an even surface. Then I looked at her. She brought strawberries, and I knew that too.

Bright red strawberries, like mine, in a see-through tupperware container. But we were not the same. My plastic bag and her container, my strawberries and hers.

She could not eat them without picking out all the seeds. Seed by seed. Patterns are everywhere.

I bit my fruit, inspected it to make sure it was a proper bite, and then turned to watch. She made a pile with her seeds. Birds could have learned from her. Her hair sometimes looked like a nest. My thick, square glasses made my eyes look like an owl’s. Without the wisdom, and I hated Tootsie Pops.

We were not like each other. I could eat my strawberries, seeds and all. I liked when I could crunch one between my teeth. I tilted my head in confusion when I watched her. After I had made sure that my bite left a flat mark. I would take little nibbles to make sure I ate it evenly. But I did not mind the seeds, and she did. We both brought strawberries, not apples. And our hairs were poofy and we had difficulty talking sometimes. But my hair was pitch-black and hers was reddish-brown. And I did not pick the seeds.

I think of her now when I walk awkwardly and stumble to avoid stepping on cracks. I count them sometimes. When I feel the burn of a door handle and the germs contaminating me. Only certain door handles. I write only with one certain type of pen. Luck does not exist in this world. But if it does, I want to be on her good side.

I did not pick my strawberries when I ate them today.