| There’s a Monster in My Kitchen |
The scraping noise, dragging across the kitchen counter, makes my heart bounce. I can feel it inside my ears. It’s not helping at all that I’m hiding under the table, hoping that the drop will kill it.
The monster, I mean.
My name is Alice, and I’m nine years old. I like green ribbons, and little plastic elephants, and playing with Matchbox cars in the dirt in my backyard. I hate sunburns, Jessica Chance at school, and Spam.
I used to like my cat, Jinx, a whole lot, but he’s laying down on the floor now, and I think he’s probably dead. This is also why I hate Spam.
The scrape comes again, followed by a little squelchy squishing sound. Peeking out from under the lace tablecloth, I can’t see the boxy tin can moving across the counter, but I can tell that it’s getting closer.
Jinx is definitely not breathing. I don’t know what that thing did to it, with its pink ropy arms, all slimy with fat, but I’m not sure I want to find out. His head is kinda twisted around, and he looks a little shriveled.
Mom would say his name was ironic. But then, if she hadn’t left me a can of Spam to make myself lunch today, my cat wouldn’t be dead. I’ll never look at a can the same again. I’m not sure what ugly, slimy things are waiting to jump out at me from the chicken noodle soup in the cupboard, or maybe even the box of condensed milk Mom keeps behind the flour and the sugar.
I had only just barely started turning that little key, to peel the top off, when the whole can started shaking. All I could think to do when it poked its little greenish-white eyeball out the top was to run and hide. Jinx hissed at it, and there was a snapping noise. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw the thing—the can was bulging at the sides, and the top had been ripped clean off.
I sneak another look under the snowflake lace—the scraping much, much closer—and catch a glimpse of the Spam Monster. It’s all pink skin, fat little squid-arms dragging its can like a hermit crab across the counter. I imagine that there are a whole bunch of teeth in there, somewhere. Pointy ones.
It looks right at me, and I swear that it’s drooling. I let out my most blood-curdling scream, well-practiced from having three older brothers, and the thing freezes.
The front door slams.
“Honey?! Is everything okay?” Her heels click-clack across the floor in the hallway, too quick.
The click-clacks stop in the kitchen door, and I catch her eyes. I see them go from the pink, gooey streak spread across the counter, to Jinx lying motionless on the tiles.
I am in so much trouble.
Jinx hops up, from floor to chair to counter, no longer content to play my game. He starts lapping at the Spam, in its carefully laid out path leading to the open container. My sculpture, my masterpiece, the Spam Monster, stands motionless as Mom watches Jinx lap at its face. One of its eyes, a peeled grape with a raisin shoved in the middle, rolls across the floor and stops at the tip of Mom’s shoe.
“Alice Elizabeth,” she spits through clenched teeth. My stomach unwinds just a little. This isn’t quite as bad as it could have been. She’s only using her kinda-mad voice. That’s three whole steps from her I’m-going-to-strangle you voice. “I am going to go upstairs and take a nice, warm bath. By the time I get back downstairs, this kitchen will be spotless, and Jinx will be off of the counter.”
I sulk. I’ve had a lot of practice at that, too.
“Do I make myself clear?” I note to myself that the sulking isn’t helping, as now she’s using her actual mad voice. Sometimes, these battles can’t be won.
“Yes, Mom.” Jinx meows a low little whine, his nose sticky with Spam. He probably thinks he’s helping. He’s loyal like that. Mom’s gone from the doorway, and I slink to the cupboard under the sink.
I have my own set of cleaning supplies, down here, with my name on masking tape in big block letters. I pull out the sponge and soap, and start scrubbing. It’s tough work, but really, how else are my parents supposed to learn that I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch?
And unless she wants to come home next week to a giant mutant loaf of bread, oozing strawberry blood and peanut butter pus, Mom better cut the crusts off, too.