Word Count: 385
He was hot and cranky in his Mr. Peanut costume and he still had one more gig to go. St. Lawrence’s school up in Rochester. It was already 2:30 p.m. when he got there a half hour late.
He hated kids. Especially the five and six year-olds who wanted to touch him and see if he was real. Hung on him like monkeys. Sticky hands and a hundred questions and a teacher who stood in the back of the room just relieved to have someone else take over.
Sometimes they snuck out for a cigarette; this one did, cranky herself because he was late and the kids were in chaos, as always, that last part of the school day.
He spotted the little girl immediately. He could tell because she alone stayed in her seat, a small frown on her face, looking about ready to cry.
He went on with his spiel with an edge to his voice as two little brats kicked at his shins. He was ready to whack them away when the teacher popped her head in. She called their names sharply, told them to behave, then promptly shut the door back again.
Sweat streamed down his sides in the heat of the big peanut costume. His hair matted inside the big peanut head. He left out huge parts of his memorized tale of the peanut from field to the grocery store. One of the brats cautiously kicked at his calf.
“Bet you love peanut butter,” he said to the one quiet kid in the class, who sat controlling her tears.
She nodded. “I can’t have it,” she said, and a tear slipped from between her long lashes.
“Whaddya mean?” he asked in a near-gentle voice.
“Not supposed to,” she said and hiccuped from holding it in.
“Everybody eats peanuts,” he said, and shelled one especially for her. The room stilled and grew silent. The kids circled around. “Go ahead,” he said, “peanuts are good for you!”
“That’s it today, kiddies!” he said and he nodded to the teacher as he opened the door and walked swiftly out.
He heard the scream, the kids joining in, and imagined the little girl turning blue as her throat closed and her long-lashed eyes opened wide as if to gulp air.
