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SADIE

“Everyone, start your engines!” the emcee shouts above the flock of kids. Rather than gun said engine, they all make ptbptbptb noises with their mouths while holding their eggplant cars above the big drop.

“On the count of one, two…” He pauses, gazing into their wide eyes, before the flag drops. “Three!”

The eggplants fly. It’s a purple blur as the vegetables skid down the ramp toward the finish line.

But alas, vegetables were never meant to race.

One’s wheel pops off, sending it careening to the left where it hits another.

Soon, both are twirling not down but in a circle, taking out every other “car” along the way.

Stems pierce purple flesh, tearing eggplants to shreds.

Wheels drag through the white pulp, leaving a trail of seeds behind.

The kids are a sea of pale faces and wide eyes watching the vehicles they spent five whole minutes making tear each other to pieces. In the end, gravity picks the winner as the remains of eggplants gloop down the ramp to cross the finish line.

“Number five!” the emcee shouts, waving his checkered flag. He picks up the glob of pulp from the winning eggplant and hands it to the owner who’s grinning ear to ear despite his vehicle being diced then pulverized.

The crowd cheers, because what else is there to do at the Loomis Eggplant Festival?

Tourists from Sacramento flock to the old Train Depot every year for the music, the food, and their free eggplant.

There’s a quaint county fair feel to the whole thing where someone can pet a llama, get their face painted, eat so much cotton candy they hurl on the tilt-a-whirl, then pass out in the beer garden.

I’d love every second if I didn’t fear that with one wrong turn, I could put myself into anaphylactic shock. Again.

Oh, my parents were not happy when I called them about needing a new Epipen. “Beti, don’t you know what these cost?”

Yes, Dad.

“You need to stop being so careless with your health.”

It was an accident, Mom.

I’d love to not need to blow hundreds of dollars every year on something I might need so I don’t choke to death on a dip or pasta dish, but here we are.

After I got out of the hospital, I felt like a bloated tomato.

I’d convinced myself that I’d invented a ridiculously hot man holding me when I looked like a dog that tried to fetch a beehive.

But my friends constantly asking if I knew the guy who saved me punctured through that delusion.

So I may have, even though I almost died there, spent every happy hour at the Taphouse just waiting.

To see if he was there. So I could thank him, of course.

Maybe with a card, or some flowers, a home-cooked meal.

Very wholesome things that don’t involve that huge hand of his tearing off my pants to administer his shot elsewhere.

“That’s terrible, even for you,” I whisper to myself.

“Sadie.” Across the crowds, Lucy waves to me with two eggplants.

I offer my excuses, feeling like an elephant in a maze as I try to navigate around the crowds. They’re all pressing for the beer garden or the rides while I have to move toward the stage and my friends.

This is all Ann’s idea anyway. I wanted to stay home where there weren’t any vegetables that could send my immune system into a nuclear meltdown.

“Here.” Lucy drops one of her eggplants into my hands. I wince. Even though I’m only in trouble if I eat the damn things, it’s hard to not think of my skin bubbling up in hives. Just as I picture them exploding like the veggie cars, she switches the eggplant out for a purple drink.

I move to take a sip before I pause and look around. “What’s in it?”

“It’s not eggplant,” she chides me with a laugh.

I rub my stomach, trying to make room after the pancake breakfast, and take a drink.

Lucy gives an approving, “Ah. This Eggplant Spritzer is so much better than last year’s.”

My eyes open wide, and I calculate whether to drink the poison down or spray it all over my friend. Even though she’s wearing purple like everyone else, I choose to swallow. “But you said it’s not eggplant.”

“That’s the name. It’s just vodka, Blue Curacao, and cherry juice. It won’t kill you.”

Right. Whew. This time I taste it, enjoying the summery flavors even in October. It’s weird to get into a pumpkin spice and long scarf mood in this eighty-five-degree heat.

“You’re not allergic to cherries, are you?”

Am I?

No. I’d remember that, at least.

“Ooh.” Lucy stuffs her eggplants into her bag, then spins me around by the elbow. “She’s starting.”

Up on the grandstand, a dozen of Loomis’ residents position themselves before plates of food. They must have already finished with the children’s round. Lucy gives a huge wave, and Ann answers with a curt nod.

“Wow.” This second emcee leans close to sniff one of the plates in front of a man. “This smells delicious. What did you cook for us?”

“Eggplant Parmesan,” he grunts.

“A classic, and what about you ma’am?”

An older lady pulls the mike down to her height and shouts so hard she peaks the speakers, “Moussaka.”

“One of my favorites,” the emcee declares before moving down the line. One by one, everyone explains their eggplant dish, eyes gleaming at the competition. Their hunger for the grand prize—a riding lawnmower and leaf blower—is nothing compared to the ravenous horde waiting to run up the stairs.

The plates are flying back through the crowd. Lucy grabs one, then hands it to me. I take it without thinking, then stare dumbfounded at the paper-scalloped edge. What am I going to do with this?

“All right. Eggplant lovers, are you ready to be blown away?”

“Yes!” the crowd shouts at the stand. The red rope, the only thing keeping them at bay, starts to buckle.

The emcee nods to the teenager manning it, and he unhooks the clasp.

In one great exhale, the whole herd rushes up the stage.

The teenager and emcee are both blown back as people run down the row, filling their plates with spoonfuls of moussaka, eggplant parmesan, and all the other things I’ve never tried.

It smells delicious, the air thick with tomato, cheese, and spice. But every dish up there may as well be labeled with a skull and crossbones for me.

“Here.” Lucy slips off her bag and hands it to me. “Hold this for me,” she declares before molding into the stream onto the stage.

I stare down at the two purple fruits knocking about in her canvas tote. Even the bag is purple with a white stencil of the damn eggplant across every inch.

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I spin around. “Are you in line?”

“No.” I wave them on. “Go ahead.”

Giddy adults shove forward, all of them eager for free food. Lucy reaches Ann’s table and spears the grilled eggplant onto her plate. The two share a laugh, and I try to join in.

“Ha ha, yes, that’s so funny!” I shout, hoping they can hear me. But instead of glancing my way, the people around me part. Eyes glare at the weirdo doing her best to be a part of something that’ll kill her.

“Are you going up there or not?” another person asks.

Taking a deep breath, I step to the side. “No, go on.”

As more people swarm Ann, congratulating her on her dish, I slip away.

Back through the crowds, I wander past the chalk crawl where people ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over gardens of eggplants.

At the petting zoo, a man in a full-on eggplant costume does a funny dance for the kiddos.

Just as he’s leaning out, a llama lunges and nips at the eggplant’s butt. The kids roar with laughter.

I put on a smile, recognizing a funny moment but not feeling it. Even that llama gets to eat eggplant.

Look, I’m proud of Ann. Getting onto the stage isn’t easy. There’s a fee and everything. And if she wins, she’ll have bragging rights for a year. It’s just…

Every other day of the year Loomis is a perfectly acceptable place to live.

Quiet compared to Sacramento, where people are more easygoing and less likely to split in half if someone forgets their donut order at the counter.

It’s perfect for me. My family’s a little over forty-five minutes away so I can see them every weekend if I want.

Or not if I don’t. My friends are here. My job…

Well, my job can go anywhere. Taking a photo of a gyro on a beach in Greece, or a scotch egg on a haunted moor would be fantastic. It’ll never happen, but I can dream.

If it wasn’t for this one stupid festival, I’d be happy.

Exhausted, I stumble around the families gorging themselves on eggplant fries and fall onto a bench. A shadow looms beside me, but I stare down at the eggplants in the bag. The two purple fruits…or are they vegetables? Either way, they knock around like they’re daring me to eat them.

I remember their taste, especially in my mother’s curries. It’s less the eggplant flavor I miss, more everything that went around them. Zucchini curry just isn’t the same. And the looks I’d get from my brother when my mother would make that instead for dinner probably took ten years off my life.

Hefting the eggplant out of my bag, I stare at its shiny skin. My reflection catches in the purple hue. This stupid thing could end me in a heartbeat with its funny little stem and dark purple flesh.

I start to laugh at it all when the shadow beside me shifts and a face reflects back in the eggplant.