Rotten
by Mira Posluns
The week leading up to Thanksgiving, it rained non stop. An endless stream of water fell from the gloomy sky and flooded the streets. I listened to the steady flow as I read my book, grateful for the white noise. We had never seen so much rain before and while most of the plants in mother's garden had never been happier, one was not as content as the others.
“The pomegranates are going to die,” Mother whined one night as she watched the water surround the little fruit-bearing shrub from the living room window. Her brown hair was tied back so I could see the little worry lines across her face. “They’re not supposed to get this much water!”
“Don’t worry,” Father replied, still in his work attire and with his eyes trained on the newspaper. “I’ll get us some from the store tomorrow. I have to pick up the potatoes anyway.”
“It won’t be the same,” Mother complained. “How are the girls going to pick them if we get them from the store?”
She was talking about our family’s favourite Thanksgiving tradition. Every year, my sister and I would pick one pomegranate from the garden for Mother to make her famous red molasses with. We had done it every year since I could remember.
“I’ll take Elodie and Alice to the store with me,” Father offered, rubbing her back. “It won’t be exactly the same, but it’ll be something.”
The following day, while Father was trying to rush us out the door, I noticed something red and shiny in Elodie’s blonde hair.
“That’s my barrette!” I pointed out. “I was looking for that!”
“No,” Elodie challenged. “It’s mine. You lost yours.”
I frowned. “You never had a red one.”
“Yes, I did,” she lied.
“It’s mine. Give it to me!”
“No!”
“You’re the worst!” I reached forward to pull it out of her hair but Father’s firm hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled it back.
“That’s it!” he scolded. He pulled the barrette out of Elodie’s hair and put it in the pocket of his rain jacket. “No one gets the clip now.”
“But that’s not fair!” I complained. “She stole it from me!”
“Enough,” he warned, holding up his finger to shush me, and that was the end of that.
When we arrived at the store, it was packed with people rushing through their last-minute holiday shopping, and many of the shelves had been completely cleared out. Shoes squeaked on the floors and the bright fluorescent lighting offset the gloom from outside. When we arrived at the produce section and I saw the rows of empty racks, I wasn’t hopeful. We walked down the aisles until we found the section labeled Pomegranates.
“I don’t see any,” I said, looking up at Father. “I think they’re out.”
“Hmm…” he hummed, scanning the racks. I could tell he was worried. He had promised Mother that he would get us pomegranates and the store had none.
“I found two!” Elodie squealed. She had walked further down the aisle and was standing on her tip-toes to reach the farthest point on one of the shelves. She grabbed one and ran over to us. The pomegranate was bright red and round and perfect. “There’s another one over there,” she told me.
I raced to the shelf she had just been at, just in case anyone else had been eyeing the last pomegranate. Reaching as far as I could, I grabbed hold of the red ball. It squished under my thumb.
“Dad!” I called out, running back over to where he stood, his hand on Elodie’s shoulder. “This one’s mushy!” I placed the fruit in his hand for him to see.
Father turned the pomegranate over in his hand. He pressed gently on the dark spot and tilted his head.
“It’s alright,” he said, handing it back to me. “We’ll just cut the bad parts off.”
I scowled at him. “I don’t want a pomegranate with bad parts.”
“You’ll just have to deal with it, Alice,” he said, placing the fruit in his basket. “Be grateful that you have food on Thanksgiving. Now where are the potatoes?”
I sulked behind him and my sister through and out of the store. I didn’t want to “deal with it.” Elodie didn’t have to “deal with it.” She got the perfect pomegranate and she got away with stealing my things; it wasn’t fair. When we got home, Father put the pomegranates on the counter next to the fridge. Elodie’s sat in front, shiny and smooth, while mine sat behind hers, bruised and hidden in the shadows.
Later that day, when the rain lightened up a bit, Mother and Elodie took the dog for a walk. Father was upstairs in his office with the door shut, so I was left alone downstairs. I attempted to finish reading my book in the living room, but I couldn't focus. The rain was too distracting now, and every other sentence, my eyes wandered to the kitchen counter. The pomegranates stared back at me, red and shiny like my barrette.
I closed the book and dropped it on the coffee table. It just wasn’t fair! Why did we even need to have separate pomegranates in the first place? Why did she get the pretty one just because she found them first? She always got everything she wanted, and I had to fight for the scraps.
I stood up from the couch and strode over to the kitchen, glaring at the fruits. They were taunting me. I grabbed Elodie’s perfect pomegranate, a bread knife and a cutting board. I was going to end this.
I placed the cutting board on the counter and put the pomegranate on top. Then, with a firm hand, I slammed the knife through the fruit, just as I had seen my mother do in the previous years. It split open with a loud crack, squirting juice into my eye as if in revenge for my breaking it. It dripped down my face and onto my shirt, but I didn’t care. The fruit could stain every item I owned and I wouldn’t care. I had cut into it, so now it was mine.
I dropped the knife on the cutting board and began digging at the fruit with my hands. I broke it apart, pulling the seeds out of each crevice and scattering them across the counter. My face was covered in the juice of the fruit, my hands a deep blood red. I knew I should have stopped, but I just kept digging and digging, my hands getting redder and the fruit getting more destroyed.
When I caught my reflection in the metal stovetop, all I could see was an ocean of red. It streamed down my face and stained my clothes. I picked up the knife again and whacked the chunks of shell that were left, cutting them into tiny bits and pieces. I kept going and going, I couldn’t stop, even as the juice squirted out at me again and again with every slice.
Then there was a click. The sound of a key turning in the door. They were home. They were home in time to see the mess I had made, the destruction I had caused. The door swung open. Wet boots squeaked on the mat in the front hall. The dog shook off the rain.
“Hello?” Mother called into the house. “Alice, are you down here?”
“It smells like wet dog!” Elodie screeched. The sound of paws on the hardwood floor came in my direction. “Alice, come catch him with me!” Elodie’s racing footsteps neared the kitchen. I turned around just in time to see her face fall. “Alice!” she cried. “What did you do?”
I didn’t say a word.
“What’s going on?” Mother asked as she entered the kitchen. She stopped behind Elodie, her mouth dropping open. “Alice?” she questioned, walking over to where I stood. “What happened?”
“I…”
“Dammit!” she interrupted, picking up one of the seeds in her hand. “It's gone bad!”
I frowned at her. What did she mean? It was perfect. It had to be. All of Elodie’s things were. But when I looked down at the cutting board again, she was right. The seeds were brown and hard, and the juices weren’t all over my shirt because they were all dried up in the crevices of the fruit. An odor wafted from it. The outside was pretty, but the inside was smelly and disgusting.
“What happened to my pomegranate?” Elodie asked.
“It’s rotten,” Mother answered.
I placed the knife down on the counter and stepped away. Elodie looked to me, her eyes watering and her lips quivering, but I didn’t care. I could still see the crease that my barrette had made in her hair.