By Michele Hubler
Illustrated by Krista Allenstein
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Mom smiled. “Great!” She left, not caring that we were practically guaranteed a nightmare evening.
“Let’s eat, then I’ll get out my pictures. I have an amazing shot of a giant rutabaga.” Mrs. Frister bustled into the kitchen. The fridge door opened. Big abandoned the sofa and shot in after her.
“We have to get rid of our gum,” whispered Joe.
“No way! This is premo stuff chewed to perfection.” I stuck my gum under the edge of the coffee table. It’d be safe there.
We ate slowly. Chili and cornbread was the only thing between outsized rutabagas and us. “Three helpings each. What hearty appetites!” Mrs. Frister cleaned up and spread out her photos. Joe and I watched enviously as Big escaped to the living room. We were trapped with shots of a smiling Mrs. Frister among mountain-sized turnips and carrots.
Joe started to nod off. I kicked him under the table. We were in this together.
Finally, the parade of parsnips ended. “And as a surprise, I brought you some beet chips. These are as good as potato chips. And so much better for you!” Mrs. Frister pulled a bag of red and pink chunks from her tote bag and poured them into a bowl.
We sat up and looked at the clock. Half past ten. We could make it. Then Big trotted back through the door. Joe’s jaw dropped. I whipped around to see what he was looking at. Big had a new spot on his rear. A pink one.
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