OCR Text |
Show Peppermint Monday was a dry knot in my throat. I wanted to make Barton eat his words. I preferred a noisy kid to Jake anyday. "You said I had to look at him. I have. Now if you'll excuse me- " I let him by peacefully, but I sure wanted to hit him. He was missing his chance to see a real-live hick. Even though he thought so, Jason and I didn't come close. Mealtime with Barton was something else too. I used to classify myself as a picky eater. There were a lot of things ma cooked that I wouldn't touch, but at least I like the basics: hamburgers, potatoes, breads, and good desserts; rich ones with layers of whipped cream, frostings, and sauces. Barton was a boy too, which was even worse. Jason and his friends ate most everything, whether they liked it or not. Barton took small portions, and then never ate much of what he put on his plate. His meat had to be rare, his vegetables creamed, and his milk skimmed. He loathed margarine as a substitute for butter, and all we ever used was margarine. Pa couldn't tell the difference, and I guess ma was counting her pennies, so we never had real butter. I think that upset Barton more than our hillbilly "ma and pa" talk. Ma bought some just for him, which made me mad. I liked butter better too. No one had ever catered to my wants. Even if Barton was company, he didn't deserve special treatment. I didn't remember him going out of his way for us when we'd visited him. Russ was to the point where ma fed him most of the time. He had got over the initial depression too, and the credit was naturally given to Jake. Jake was almost a hero in our home, at least his name was. Jason and I still didn't approve, but we were out voted. Pa even allowed Russ to tell stories and superstitions Jake had told him about; at the dinner table of all places. |