• Mid-June, sweltering heat, ninety-eight degrees:
    I eyed the glass suspiciously; the murky brown liquid that flowed within it could only be poison. The color, the sent—sickeningly sweet, like a peach that had rotted all day in the sun—I couldn’t bear to take a sip; yet, with her glare burning my skin worse than my sunburn, I knew that I had no choice. Slowly, shakily, I pulled a thin, glass stirring rod from the napkin beside me, lowering it into my cup. The foul liquid swirled around, faster, faster, until the tsunami sent waves crashing over the rim and onto her new white tablecloth. Her eyes were fire, and my lips and throat ached beneath their heat. I sighed, once again removing the stirring rod. The glass now rested daintily in my fingers: a single slip, and it would crash to the floor, shattering into a million pieces, spilling its contents. I smiled, playing with the thought in my mind—but no, I couldn’t. She would be too angry. No, I mustn’t upset her…resigned, I brought the glass to my lips, gagging slightly at the smell. I let the liquid wash over my tongue, feeling the tingle of taste buds dissecting the flavor. There was orange, it penetrated my senses, burned my nose from the acid, made my mouth tingle with delight. A hint of pineapple mingled with grape and apple and pear. The fruits danced across my lips, frolicked between my teeth and down into my throat. I swallowed, smiling, the sweet harmony lingering in my mouth for only seconds, leaving my mind itching for more, my parched throat crying for just one more taste. I sighed from the pleasure, the utter delight. She isn’t so bad, really, I thought, as I downed the rest of the glass. Then, seeing her pleased face, I reached for the pitcher and poured myself some more.

    Mid-June, sweltering heat, ninety-eight degrees:
    I tried my stepmother’s fruit punch and lived to tell the tale.