The writing prompt was:
"Give me a story that includes these five elements: a crack in the sidewalk, rat poison, rust-colored corduroy pants, leftover lasagna, and Einstein."
Things Hidden
At the very bottom of her mother’s cedar chest, under a wool blanket, was a faded Polaroid photograph. One glance set the reels of her memory archive in motion.
There was no point begging her mother to let her get pants that actually fit. Better to grow into them than to grow out of them, her mother would argue. She’d just have to roll the legs up.
School was a 20-minute walk. Even if she hurried, she’d be late. Her mother didn’t like mornings, and getting ready was always rushed and unpleasant. Her stomach grumbled. She thought about the peanut butter sandwich in her blue plastic lunchbox.
She was so embarrassed of that stupid lunchbox. It used to be her brother’s and it had a picture of Einstein on it. Why couldn’t she have a Barbie lunchbox like the other girls?
Her brother was sick for a long time. He always had nose bleeds and bruises – lots of bruises. After her brother died, the kids at school would tease her and say her mother killed him with rat poisoning. If she asked about him, her mother would slap her face.
The lunchbox. She forgot it at home. Too late to go back now. And she’d wake up her mother. Maybe her best friend would share.
She’d often daydream about food. She’d imagine the whole world was lasagna and she had to eat a path to school. She loved lasagna. She had leftover lasagna one time at her best friend’s house. Her mother had stomach ulcers, so they never had anything like it at home.
She stopped to pull up her brand new rust-colored bell bottom corduroys, then jumped with both feet on to the line between the squares of concrete sidewalk.
Don’t step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back.
Sometimes she hated her mother.
The photograph: A 9-year-old girl looks into the camera. No smile. New school year. New outfit. Earth tones were all the rage.
