by Lexie Oosse

I’m three years old and today my mother and I are taking the lady next door shopping. She has gray hair in a tight bun and an extremely wrinkly face. Her name is Anita Homeister. Hello dearie, how are you doing today? Good. Eh? Ahem, GOOD! Would you like a peppermint? YES PLEASE! This is the part I look forward to, when she gets out her dusty, green jar of peppermints.

We get to the grocery store, which is fun, at first. My mom gives me two pennies for pony rides. I eagerly slide the penny in the little slot, cachink, and the machine begins to jerk up and down, up and down. We go to the toy section and I longingly look at the toys wishing I could own nearly everything. Sometimes I stroke the stuffed animals or squeeze the big teddy bears. I pass by barbies in sparkling gowns, perfumy smelling dolls that I must be careful with, and big, colorful bouncy balls all locked up in a cage. The aisles of toys seem so endless and I get tired. My mom and I sit on the hard, white benches at the front of the store while Mrs. Homeister shuffles down the aisle, clutching her cart--so slow, like a turtle.

Me, I have do something, so I invent a new game. I must only step on the gray tiles, continuing in an endless pattern. I meander around for a while and I have to stop because there’s this very big lady standing there, her large rear in my way. Smack! Dead center. Outa my way, lady! Oh my, she says with this horrified look on her face. My mom yells at me and I get this feeling inside like I did something I shouldn’t have done, something very bad.