The Love Hypothesis. Laura Steven
I hear footsteps climbing up the stairs. Panicking, I stuff the pills into my school backpack just in time. There’s a polite tap at my door – it must be Dad. Vati never knocks.
‘Come in,’ I call, trying and failing to make my shaky voice sound as normal as possible.
Dad walks in and immediately freezes. That’s when I realize I’m still cradling the deformed zucchini in my left hand, the condom perched on the bed in front of me. Dad looks at me, aghast.
‘Oh, no! This isn’t . . . I’m not . . . Vati, he was giving me a demo –’
‘I’ll come back later,’ Dad mutters, even though he believes both contractions and poor vocal clarity to be signs of a weak mind. He shuffles back out the door, closing it too fast behind him, and practically sprints back downstairs. From a man who is usually so controlled, this is nothing short of bone-chilling.
Sighing deeply, I pull out my phone to text my group chat with Keiko and Gabriela.
Why do vegetables have to be so phallic? It’s a serious design flaw.
Gabriela does the crying-laughing emoji, and Keiko replies instantly.
Vegetables have no redeeming qualities. How many times do I have to tell you?
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