Author: Ryann Taylor
There is no candy more disgusting than candy corn. Not only does it not actually resemble corn, it also has a sandy texture that makes it crumble in my mouth like a piece of dirt. Yes, I have put dirt into my mouth before like any normal almost-five-year-old would, and in case you are wondering, no, it isn’t good.
So today on this most horrible of days, the principal of my preschool has decided to bribe me to risk my life with none other than, you guessed it, candy corn.
“Ryann, if you flush the toilet I’ll let you have a piece of candy corn.”
She sounds nonthreatening if you don’t look at her pursed lips and her beady, black eyes, but I do. She stays perched in her big, cushy blue chair behind her desk. Her hands are folded on top near scattered papers I couldn’t read, even if I could see the tops of them, and near one solitary picture frame. The most hideous thing of all is the clear jar on the corner of her desk that contains the candy corn; it’s still only half-way filled like it was the past two months I’ve used the bathroom in her office.
“Ryann…?”
My fingers reach for my left pigtail, and they give it a slight tug. I let my fingers slide through the hair my mom brushed out this morning and put into two separate ponytails—pigtails.
“No thank you;” I smile like my mom tells me to when I say no to something I don’t want to do. The principal’s lips are still in a tight line. Maybe she didn’t see me smile since her desk is so tall.
I’ve used the bathroom. I said “no thank you.” That’s all there is to do. My new Velcro shoes flash as I take a few steps to the door, but a blue-jean clad thigh blocks me. Farther up from that thigh is a plaid shirt and the sympathetic face of my pre-school teacher.
“Excuse me.”
She doesn’t budge. I don’t get it. I said “excuse me.”
“Now, Ryann, you can either flush the toilet or I’ll have to call your mom.”
This is coming from behind me—from behind a tall desk.
“We’ll still give you candy corn,” my teacher croaks, smiling at me like candy corn is going to convince me to risk my life. I swivel and my shoes flash again to look at the principal.
Principal beady-eyes makes a “cheese” face at me. Her fingers are still tapping on her desk. The door to her bathroom is cracked how I left it a minute ago, and the neon, skittle-yellow light pierces my eyes.
“Will one of you go in with me?” I beg, feeling my fingers reach again for my pigtail.
Beady-eyes shakes her head. Her “cheese” face is gone. The line is back on her face.
“What if something happens to me?” My feet begin to shake as they think about what they’re going to have to do.
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” beady-eyes sighs and stops tapping her fingers to motion towards the bathroom door.
“I’ll wait here,” my teacher promises behind me. Like she cares. She’s the one who wouldn’t let me out of this stinking room.
If they were to call my mom would she defend my precious life? Who would do the dusting for her if I didn’t survive? Who would take my toys? Then again, my mom makes me flush at home. The toilet at our house isn’t as—
“Ryann? Do we need to call your mom?”
I shake my head and take the wobbly, flashing steps it takes to get into the blindingly bright bathroom. I push the door further open just in case I get sucked in; one of them will see me and pull me out. I hope.
The stool I had just used a minute ago sits beside the toilet, waiting for the toilet to take its next victim. Maybe I’m being dramatic. That’s what my mom always says. I would think I was being dramatic too if I hadn’t witnessed the toilet’s loud roar and how it spits water while eating my pee and toilet paper.
Why does it like toilet paper anyway? I’ve tried it before. It’s not so great. It just tastes like dusty paper.
My hands press against the chilly, brick wall as I place one foot on the stool carefully. I don’t want to wobble and fall in. Then I’ll definitely be a goner.
Inside the toilet there’s still pee with a now soggy string of toilet paper sitting on top. I’m going to have to set my hand on the seat to reach the lever.
“Can you see me?!” I yell outside before I take the risk.
“Yes.”
That’s all? They’re not concerned?!
I set my hand on top of the shiny, silver lever and push down.
I jump back as it roars and swirls and spits at me.
I land on the tile floor with my body in a bridge; hands on the floor, feet on the floor, tummy in the air.
I walk out of the bathroom, not looking at the principal.
My teacher smiles down at me. She places her hands on her thighs so she can bend down; “good job! Now you get candy corn!”
Before I can even protest, the principal has left her desk and is by my side with the clear jar half-way filled with old candy corn.
“You can take three pieces,” the principal shoves the jar in my face, and I don’t know what to do—other than take three pieces of candy corn. I count them out. One, two, three. They sit in my hand, cool and hard.
I look over at my teacher and her face is beaming. She nods at me.
I’ll let her have the satisfaction. I place all three pieces in my mouth and take a cautious bite down. It’s just as sandy as I remember.