pepper.

And then we both sat there, at that soggy picnic table, and stared at the last pepper. We both lowered our heads and hunched our shoulders so that we could see it at eye level, floating in its own florescent juices, like a biology experiment in a mason jar. It was the summer of contests, and this was the contest of champions. Our stomachs were already so angry with us, our mouths and throats couldn't take anymore. We'd each already downed six, and whoever ate the last one would bear the title of neighborhood hero (below chapter-book-reading age). I was so miserable that I forgot all of the other dirty, sweaty children who were standing around us in dead silence, each of them wondering what was going to happen next. I was wearing a black shirt, the sun was hot on my back, and the peppers were heating me from the inside. I was being baked all the way through, like a Thanksgiving turkey. My blood must've boiled. There was no way that it couldn't have. Neither of us wanted that pepper, and whoever ate it would undoubtedly be pushed over the edge and spend the next few days at home, sick, unable to play cops and robbers with all of the other kids. Was it worth the title? I'd come this far already. I looked at that disguisting, menacing thing, floating in glass, and glanced sideways at my opponent, whose grubby summer hands were reaching toward the jar. I then, in amazement, watched as my hands began to do the same thing. Was I really moving them? Both of our hands clutched the edges of the jar at the exact same moment, and we dug in.