My Cardboard Balcony

I Didn't Tell Her by Belinda Roddie I didn't tell her that I had purchased a ticket to New York because I hoped I had at least a teaspoon of talent. I didn't tell her that the second week of August would be the last week that I'd reside in my parents' house, or that I had already quit from my boring job pushing carts and enduring customers' abuse. I thought if I just disappeared, she would forget me. After all, we did not speak much, and any flame between us had flickered out long ago, or so I thought. It wasn't until the day before I left that she came to me wanting more.

"Does this have peppers?" asked Chastity. "I can't eat peppers." We were sitting at the table on my father's deck, the backyard spotted with color as roses of every type grew and separated patches of cherry tomatoes, summer squash, and cucumbers. My mother had just brought out a heaping plate of food, and sure enough, I could spot chunks of bell pepper throughout the casserole-like meal. "Sorry, Mom," I said somberly. "Chast' can't eat peppers. She's allergic." "Really?" my mother asked. "Tell me, how does she live happily from day to day?"