Page 31 of Pick-Up
“Hey!” shouts a fifth-grade Captain Underpants. “What’s the hold up?”
“Hey, kid. Get some manners!” I yell back.
“Okay, okay,” Ethan says, a hand up as if to stop me. “Try to remain calm. I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s what they all say!” I call after him.
He looks at me quizzically, but even I don’t know what I mean.
He leaves me feeling even more tweaky.
I am doing my best to serve the next people in line when Ethan returns and, without warning, takes a spot beside me behind the table.
(A) He is close to me. (B) Why is he close to me? (C) Why is he close to me in my current state, as a feral cotton candy beast? (D) Why do I care?
Extra credit question: Why am I suddenly warm?
Startled and suspicious, I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing over here?”
“I’m helping you.”
“Helping me… or taking over?”
“Are you really in a position to make that distinction?”
He has a point, though you couldn’t torture me into admitting it. I smooth my hair, pulling tacky fluff through it.
“I don’t need help.”
A runaway strand of cotton candy stretches like a tightrope across my face. I watch him raise his hand, as if to help, then reconsider and drop it back down. I try to blow the sugar out of the way, but suck it into my mouth and choke instead. The resulting coughing fit does not feel hygienic. The crowd eyes me like I’ve got typhoid.
“Yeah,” Demon Dad says. “It seems like you’ve really got it under control.” He leans in close to my ear, whispering so the people in line can’t overhear. “Just let me help.”
I am preoccupied by his proximity, can feel his breath on my neck. It ignites a kind of pulsing beneath my skin. Does he smell like sugar, or have I inhaled cotton candy up my nose?
When he stands up straight again, leaving my orbit, I’m alarmed by an impulse to drag him back.
What is happening to me?
I shake it off. I will not be distracted from my suspicion! “Why are you helping?”
“Maybe because I’m a nice person?”
“That’s definitely not it.” He rolls his eyes, and I cross my arms over my chest. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I actually can’t watch this.”
He gestures between me and the angry crowd. Before I can protest more, he edges me to the side.
“You’re on order, paper cone and ticket duty.”
I look at him dumbly. Does not compute.
“Ask them which color they want. Take their tickets. Hand me a cone and I’ll scoop the powder into the machine and make it. Assembly-line style.”
I acquiesce, grumbling all the way. Sobossy.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, I am able to exhale. The pace is still fast, demand remains high, but it’s more manageable at least. And, of course, Ethan is annoyingly capable. His creations are the platonic ideal of cotton candy—fluffy, joyful, effortless, smooth.Jerk.
