The One You Feed

Late. Like usual.

May 1st, 2003 (8 years)

            “Mom.” I whine, pulling my hand from her grasp and walked myself a few steps in front of her. “I don’t want him to think I’m some baby!”

            My mom chuckled, looking at my pouting form with shining eyes. I would never admit it, but I was happy that I didn’t hurt her feelings by not wanting to hold onto her soft hands. Mommy and I were going to visit James, a new friend I met in Miss Ross’ class. His mom would be there too. Our play date would be at Barnes & Noble because apparently, James liked to read the Magic Tree House books.

            Nervously, I made sure my dark hair was perfect in my piggy tails and pulled my pink Hannah Montana tee shirt up so it covered my birthmark. The shirt I was once confident in suddenly felt too big for me while the arms felt too tight. “Mom,” I begin, voice whiny once more and fell back a few steps to walk along with her. I cowered closer to her and put my hands up to cover my mouth. “Do I look okay?”

            Charlotte smiled at me before reaching down to tuck up the neck I anxiously pulled downward, showing my mark. We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk so mom would wet her chubby thumb and smoothed my eyebrows out. I gasp and rip her hand from my unsuspecting face; I looked around, praying to everything that James wasn’t laughing at my embarrassing mom.

            “Mom!”With that same shout I often did, I pulled the shirt back up again, glaring at her.

            “Oh hush, honey. You look beautiful, darling.” Charlie’s young face looked tired but it still looked gentle and soft while she looked at me. “James will want to marry you...” She added coyly.

            I blubbered a denial while blushing furiously.

            James was really pretty and I felt silly standing next to him. I felt awfully out of place with my usual snarly hair and dirt crusted under my plain nails. While girls had girly legs with no painful scars, I had scrapes on my knees and mosquito bites.

            “Come on, my little syrup angel.”

            “If you call me that one more time Mom, I swear I won’t make you pancakes this mothers’ day.”

            I smoothed down my blue Cheetah Girls skort and walked with as much dignity a tiny eight year old could muster. When I got into the store, cold air rushed and hit my in the face with blissful force. I breathed it in and caught the taste of cinnamon rolls in the air.

            James and his mother, Darla, was patiently waiting for us in a small little booth at the back. James, a boy I met a few days ago and crushed on a week before, was pouting and glaring at the wall above his mom’s head. Darla’s amused gaze caught us awkwardly standing in the doorway and waved at us insanely.

            “Ma!” We heard James groan and buried his head in his arms.

            “Charlotte!” Darla ignored her son much to his displeasure.

            Mom grabbed my arm and gently put me in the same booth as James. “Please, call me Charlie. I feel so old when people say my full name.”

            James mom laughed loudly. “You don’t look a day older than twenty two!”

            I looked at his mom, feeling that familiar discomfort at the beauty on full display. She had a tall build with broad shoulders and sharp collarbones. Her eyes were deepset and round, full of chocolate brown.