Peanut Butter Kisses

"Evan!"

Evan approached from the top of the stairs cautiously, listening to the change of tone in his mother's voice, estimating how close she was to boiling over. That helped him determine how much time he should take to descend the stairs and head past her out the front door. It was important to time it just right. A minute too slow and she'd catch him and force him into an awkward conversation and an even more uncomfortable physical display of affection.

"Don't make me call you again or I'm coming up there to get you myself!"

Evan looked at the dial of his Transformers watch; the second hand glided slowly toward the hour and he told himself to wait, just wait, until the exact moment...now!

He sprinted down the stairs and past the counter; the rubber soles of his shoes slap slap slapping against the kitchen tile echoing the beat of his heart as his hand reached out for the doorknob to freedom.

"Wait!"

He froze on the threshold, inhaling the sweet clean air that blew into the kitchen. Just one more step and he would have been free! Tomorrow, he'd have to move faster. Maybe if he'd worn his other shoes - the limited edition Ant-Man low tops with the lights in the heel - he might have made it. Those shoes seriously helped him run faster. He knew that they were magical and made him lighter on his feet, but now, he knew for sure they were faster than these plain sneakers that had no name.

He was caught. His heart sank as he spun around slowly to face his enemy.

"You forgot something," his mother, Monica, stood behind him - a little too close for comfort - holding a brown paper lunch bag in her hand. The bottom of the bag was dark and soaked through with grease.

"Take it, Evan! I'm tired of your games. Take this lunch and EAT IT this time. I mean it!" Her arm drooped from the weight of the bag but her eyes held locked and steady with his.

"Is it peanut butter?" He asked, touching the bag to his nose.

"We don't have peanut butter! How many times do I have to tell you that?" Angry now, she reached out and gripped the side of the door as if her anger caused her to lose her balance.

Evan sighed and reluctantly accepted the bag. He shrugged his backpack down to the floor and while keeping his mother's shoes in sight, he bent over to unzip the bag and deposit the oily lunch inside. Her slippered-foot moved forward ever so slightly until Evan gripped his backpack and swung around sharply, propelling himself onto the wooden porch and down the front steps. He smiled as his feet hit the walkway and carried him away from the house - away from danger. Away from HER.

The bottom of the bag disintegrated as he pulled it from the bottom of his backpack.

Pork chops. Two greasy fried pork chops tumbled through the torn brown paper and landed at Evan's feet. His stomach roiled as he studied them first, then took his shoe and kicked at the bone. The meat glistened with a sickly yellowish tinge and lumpy coating that Evan assumed was the breading, except that nagging dread in the pit of his stomach told him that was something far more sinister than just breading.

By contrast, the pork chops were better than the moldy-looking bologna sandwiches, or the thermos of thin gray liquid that may have been soup, or the rubber container of undercooked spaghetti with no meat or sauce. It was no secret that his mother could not cook to save her life, but Evan only ate peanut butter. For breakfast, lunch and dinner, only peanut butter. So why did she insist on giving him everything but?