July 14, 2013. I was lying in my fluffy shorts and tank top on my bunk bed tossing a ball against the bumpy, grey ceiling with my eyes covered by my thick, black hair. I was listening to my stomach howl, the old fan blow half-heartedly on my sister and the chattering of my parents making a delicious steak that I wouldn’t even get a nibble of. It had been three days since the tiny piece of banana had fallen on my pancakes. Three days since the tiny slice had been replaced with a full banana because I had lied. Three days since my dad had shouted at me that I was a stubborn little rat that should just eat the junk on my plate. The tension had grown since the smelly car and the days of planning to sneak out and steal potato chips at midnight. I hadn’t eaten in three days and I refused to swallow the banana. My dad had told me that only when I eat the banana would I be able to eat anything else again.
Let me just make it clear, I absolutely, positively, despise bananas. Why? They’re disgusting, pieces of yellow mushiness. Bananas smell overly sweetened and taste like a certain yuckiness that only comes from bananas, especially when they’re ripe. Even the smell makes me nauseous in a way I can’t even describe!
The argument had started in the morning of July 11, 2013, in the dining room over a platter of freshly baked chocolate-chip pancakes. I knew I didn’t like bananas, my two dress loving sisters knew, my parents knew. Still, my dad dumped two slices of that rubbish onto the Frozen plate I had painted a few weeks ago. “No thank you,” I looked up at him, trying to decipher what that look was. Maybe it was a look of disappointment or even annoyance. His lips were just resting there and his eyebrows were flat but I knew he wasn’t really pleased with my response. “You have to eat it.” “No thanks,” I repeated scooping it up with my dad’s fork not wanting to dirty my own and almost dropping it on our old wooden table. He sighed, we’d had this discussion before. I always won but this time I could tell he wouldn’t have it. He was that kind of person that would give you what you want usually but when he wanted you to do something, he would budge if you argued. Stubborn but reasonable, a trait I hoped would show in myself someday. He guided the fork back into my mouth and turned back to his buttery pancakes glancing at me with his eyebrows now curved in a steep hill. The moment the flavors touched the tip of my tongue I squeezed my eyes shut. Just get it over with, it’s already in your mouth. I tried to swallow it, I really did. My feet swung against the tile in an attempt to distract myself but I started noticing the squishy slices sticking between the gap in my two front teeth. The room temperature seemed to be raising and my shorts were starting to stick to me. I spat it out and glared at my parents. I knew how they operated, they would probably shove the chewed, slimy thing back into my mouth, like how they did with my sisters. That made me whimper even more.
A few glares later, my sisters were brushing their teeth and my mom and dad were loading our silver minivan with beach gear. They had told me, “You have to eat it before going to play,” just like I had expected. I had two minutes alone. I walked cautiously into the kitchen, heel, toe, heel toe, making sure not to trip over the dishwasher door which I had already tripped on and broke once. I peeked out the window to make sure my parents weren’t coming and closed the sliding door to ensure that if my sisters were to come out early they wouldn’t see me and tattle. I quickly scooped the goo into the trash bin. It would have been a perfect crime. No witnesses and no evidence unless someone were to dig through the trash. The only problem was that there was no trash in the bin, just the banana. I smacked myself in the face, Laura, you idiot, I rolled my eyes at myself and groaned internally, think before you do dumby. I stole a glance outside, my parents were about to walk in and there was nothing to cover it up unless I ran to the garage to grab a paper towel or something. It would be close if I did and I wasn’t going to risk getting caught. I would just have to hope that they didn’t need to throw anything away and sprint to the bathroom to make it look like I had been doing my hair the whole time.
So now I now sat in a stuffy car in the parking lot of a beach near San Francisco, I glared at the banana. Hatefully and grudgingly. A whole, browning banana instead of two slices. I should have been swimming in the ocean and making sandcastles. Stupid banana. Stupid, eight year old me, slumped down on in an 86°F car. My favorite spot, the beach was so close, yet so far away. I shouldn’t have thrown it in the trash. Maybe. They had known that I hated bananas yet they still made me eat it so, at the time, I really thought it was their fault for shoving me out of my comfort zone. Then again, I could have up just swallowed my pride, and everything would have been amazing, there would be no fighting and no bananas for a while. However, little me thought that I was a big girl, it was my life that I controlled and that my parents should have swallowed their pride.
Or maybe it was just that I had been hasty, my parents had found the banana with disappointment written all over their face. My mum just stared at me in disbelief and my dad had roared at me for lying. His face was bright red and his hands were clenched into fists. His voice had risen about a few notes and he had shouted so loud, I swear, the whole neighborhood could have heard him. However, what was even more mortifying was when his voice went soft mid-sentence and his anger seemed to morph into something else, something worse. “Laura, don’t ever lie to me. And you will be eating a whole banana instead of two pieces. I hope you’re happy with yourself.” He said it so quickly and quietly that I had to lean in a bit while trying to keep my “I’m an independent woman and I don’t care if you yell at me” face on. I was completely still with a solid glare on the outside. How I was really feeling was a different story. I wanted to break down and sob, I wanted to beg them to take away the banana. If my body portrayed what I looked like on the inside, I would be a shaking, teary, snotty mess.
Then, he gave me the look. The look of utter disappointment. That poisonous look that would make any kid shrink down and want to hide away in a hidden hole. You know which look I’m talking about, it’s the look you hope to never see from your parents, the one that makes you feel like the most guilty, horrible kid in the world. I had never, ever been caught in a lie by my dad, never been given the look.
I had just destroyed my trusting relationship with him over an insignificant slice of banana.