Winter 2000
Maria leaned over our first-grade lunch table, her brown bob swinging. She wanted my last Cheeto, which I considered my end-meal treat. It had extra-large bumps, on which clung an ample dusting of cheese powder. It glowed fluorescent orange in the plastic baggie, taunting me. I practiced discipline, spooning applesauce until it was gone, before I would let myself eat it. My mom set rigorous rules for meals, one being that we needed to finish each meal’s designated fruits or vegetables before we ate a treat.