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Hey, Fruit, Throw Him a Curveball
Waiting.
The clock’s fifteen
past eight; the distant
car honks and civilian
commotion, shielded
by the thick glass pane
that was beside me.
Night time: the dried up
drool from the car ride lingered
around my lips.
Music: around me, catering
a soulful trance of belonging.
Dad dropped me off
so I was alone for a while.
The ladies at the front desk
asked if I wanted a magazine
to read.
I said sure. What better to
fulfill the meantime than a
magazine.
(It was a piano place,
yet this magazine was
about food.)
Instantly, I got hungry;
Why the sizzling hot peppers
on the first page?
It was tattered and full
of twists and turns.
Motley, with one section
for food, then the next for real
estate.
I wonder who's read it
before me?
Flipping through,
I found a page of pears,
pushed together like
an awkward family photo,
greener than, I don’t know,
apple sauce.
It was just another page.
It was my weekly piano
lesson; a periodical that I
hadn’t known then to cherish
but one that I do now.
Food.
This time, I was in the city,
Manhattan, by the Sephora
near Penn Station.
I followed my mom in,
smelled the usual pungent
florals, and swayed urgently
from side to side like I needed
the bathroom.
I did.
So, annoyed and, well yeah,
just annoyed, she found a nearby
Starbucks; and in there,
there were people of all kinds
—all ages, all shirts, all hair;
busy with a homely feel
of comfort, not irk.
A fruit painting by the
barista's eyes when I go
order.
I ignore it, and ask
for my go-to green tea
frappé.
But, it hung there with
a question.
Do you remember me, it
whispered.
Duped.
Now, four years later, I’m
in my last year of middle
school. Unbeknownst to me,
the pandemic would hit hard
in just two weeks: schools
across the nation would be
put into remote schooling;
weeks of awkward adjustments,
emails of reassurance by administration
inundating both my and my parents’
inboxes; friends suddenly spending
more time with my friends than me;
But, for now, I’m in seventh
period art.
More than halfway done with
the day, art was where my creativity
tag teams with fatigue to create
what oftentimes seemed a
temporary masterpiece; now,
here, temporary in that
I didn’t like it, not my teacher.
Today’s task was fruit paintings.
Well, that was going to be
easy.
I’d seen it so many times
before. What could be so difficult?
After all, it had already introduced
itself to me. I knew its contour,
its warped oil topping,
its regal frame,
its whipped feint strokes,
beige in the background as
its shadows.
What could be so difficult
about a few weeks of remote
school, when everything
would return to normal
in the blink of an eye,
not knowing that
the most familiar things were
also the most difficult to explain?
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"Hey, Fruit, Throw Him a Curveball" is an ode to a longing for simplicity. It is narrated through the lighthearted omniscience of a fruit, following me around as I grow, manifesting exactly every three years.