“Wait.” He laughs. “Is this another competition to you? You really need to chill out, Adams.”
“You’re working way too fast.” I shake my head. “I know you’re trying to beat me.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I wasn’t even paying attention to you?” He sets the spoon down on the counter and holds out his hands. “I’m trying to work hard for the elderly.”
“Stop trying to gaslight me.” I smack my hand against the counter. “And don’t act like you care about anyone but yourself. You’re only here because it looks good.”
His face is serious as he stares at me. His gaze is penetrating. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Because it looks good?”
I almost crumble beneath his scrutiny but force my chin up instead. “That’s not the only reason.”
“But it is the one you care about the most, and don’t bother pretending otherwise. I know you.” Connor starts scooping again.
He thinks he knows me? Connor knows nothing about me. He might have more styrofoam boxes than me if I cave and open more peaches. At least I’ll prove to him, and myself, that I’m confident enough to have less. I will know that I am contributing to the welfare of people who are less fortunate, and that matters more than who wins this round.
I can barely wrap my arms around the large bowl as I carry it over to the metal shelf with all the giant cans. I wonder how many I should open and look in the nearby waste basket to see how many are inside. He used three to fill the bowl originally. One by one, I open the same number and dump them into the bowl. There’s still a little room inside.
Maybe I do still care about him being better than me. Connor will have more boxes at the end of the day, there’s no way around that at this point, but I can feel smug knowing I did more for the common good.
I open a fourth and dump it in. Between the slices and syrup it’s filled to the rim. I try to lift it, but the smooth sides make it difficult to get a good grip on the bowl. My second attempt goes a little better. There’s about three inches of space between the bottom of the dish and the counter before it slips again. The crash echoes through thesmall space, spilling some syrup and earning a glance from Connor.
The bowl isn’t too heavy for me to carry. It’s just awkward and slippery. I grab some pot holders and lift it again.
“What are you doing?” Connor snaps.
“Bringing the peaches just like you asked.”
He’s already walking toward me. “Are you trying to make a mess?”
The bowl sways in my arms. When I try to straighten it, I overcorrect, and the momentum of the syrup sends some slices to the ground. They land with a wet plop. I look down. “I’ll wipe that up when we’re done.”
“Let me take it for you.”
“Now you want to help? No way.” It would be more leverage he can use against me.Remember that time you couldn't lift a bowl of fruit? Lucky for you I was there.
“Don’t be stupid.” His hands reach for the bowl.
“I’ve got it.” I wrench it free and swing it away from him. More peaches fall to the floor. There’s enough syrup that spills to make a splash.
“You’re making a mess.” Again, he tries to take it from me.
“Only because you won’t leave me alone.” I yank it away.
Soon, we’re stuck in a game of tug-of-war. In all the back and forth, the pot holders slide up, and I lose my grip. The bowl falls in slow motion. I watch helplessly as Connor tries to catch it, but it drops right through hishands and falls to the floor. The bowl bounces once. Twice. The force of impact sends the peaches flying through the air as the metal bowl spins on its side then eventually stops.
Connor and I stare down at the mess in horror before we look back up at each other. He’s the first to speak.
“You dropped it on the?—”
“Only because you tried to?—”
“If you weren’t so stubborn?—”
“You had to act like you were better than?—”
It’s a flurry of yelling and accusations thrown at each other. The words all melt together in one giant yelling match as we both fight to shift the blame off ourselves. This has got to be the worst-case scenario. I don’t know how many servings are on the floor, but they’re all inedible. We’ve just wasted food meant for the elderly. My breaths come in shallow pants.
“Connor,” I scream as loud as I can, fighting to keep air in my lungs.
