Bran’s mother reached into her lumpy brown purse and pulled out a clear plastic squeeze bottle that looked like it used to hold ketchup. But instead of the familiar red paste, it was about halfway full of some strange purple stuff. The purple liquid had separated and had a layer of pinkish watery liquid floating above it—the way natural peanut butter has oil on top when you first open the jar.
Bran’s mom gave the bottle a shake to mix the pink and purple together, kind of like you shake a ketchup bottle to mix it, and then squirted a bunch of the weird purple goo all over her fries. She handed it to Bran’s dad who did the same. He handed it to Bran who also squirted some on his plate to dip his fries into.
But when Bran tried to hand the squeeze bottle of mysterious purple ketchup to his sister, she wouldn’t take it.
“No,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and tucking her hands into her armpits defiantly, so he couldn’t hand her the bottle. “No, I don’t want any.”
“Now, Celesta…” Bran’s mother put down her drink and frowned at her daughter. “You know why it’s necessary.”
“I don’t care.” Celesta lifted her chin. “I’m tired of looking like this. It’s awful!”
“You have to,” Bran said reasonably. “It’s not easy for any of us but as mother says, it is necessary.”
“You said we would be going into exile—you didn’t say anything about this.” Celesta’s little pink snout of a nose was quivering like she was going to cry. “I don’t want to be like this anymore!” she wailed. “I miss my old life—my old self.”
“It’s temporary, daughter mine,” Bran’s father said soothingly. “Just for a little while longer, I promise.”
“You keep saying that,” Celesta said, her small, no-color eyes watering. “How much longer?”
“Not much,” her father replied. “Now come on—eat.” He nodded at Bran who squirted a small dollop of the purple stuff beside his sister’s fries. Reluctantly, she picked up a fry and dipped it into the purple paste. With a sigh, she ate it.
Bran’s mother nodded approvingly and put the plastic squeeze bottle back in her purse. Nobody else said anything about it and they finished their meal in silence.
When it looked like they were ready to go, I brought the check and asked if anyone wanted dessert.
“Oh no, we couldn’t possibly, my dear.” Bran’s father patted his little round potbelly. “We’re completely full of your excellent food.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said brightly. And to Bran I said, “See you Monday.”
“See you Monday.” He gave me that grin that has no right to be so attractive and they all trooped out.
I watched them go, so full of questions I could hardly stand it.
Yeah, I admit it—I was nosey. But there was something different about Bran O’Connor—something weird and meeting his family had only reinforced my feeling that something about all of them just wasn’t right.
What was that purple goo they were all eating? And what was Bran’s sister talking about when she said they were in exile and she missed her “old life”?
I had no idea but I was itching to find out.
I didn’t have a clue how much trouble my nosiness was about to get me into.
22
By then it was almost closing time and I still had a mountain of homework to do. I decided to just clear the table, wipe it down, and let myself out. Joey would be here probably an hour more finishing things up but he never tried to keep me late when I had school work.
“School has to come first,” he always said.
I loaded up a tray with the dirty dishes and as I did, I couldn’t help looking at the purple smears left by the mysterious sauce. Bran and his parents had eaten theirs almost all up but the little mound of purple goo on Celesta’s plate was barely touched.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I dipped just the end of my pinky in the purply sauce and licked it off with the tip of my tongue. It had a strange sour-sweet taste that made my mouth pucker. What was this stuff?
And then a sensation ran through my body—a sensation so strange and frightening I nearly dropped the tray full of dishes. It was like a giant hand had gripped my entire body and was squeezing me like someone squeezing clay.
I felt sick and I could barely put down the loaded tray on the table before I dropped it. Grabbing my stomach, I rushed for the ladies room, certain I was going to be violently ill.
I didn’t puke, although it was a near thing. I knelt on the tile floor of the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet, waiting for my stomach to stop roiling. I must be having an allergic reaction to the weird purple sauce, I told myself. Good thing I had only tasted a tiny bit of it—more might have killed me!