Just a little something I (was forced to write) wrote for my writing class. It was supposed to be a comedy on enemies...not sure how well I portrayed it, but I thought it was funny and hope you enjoy.

Cherries

I’ve been having trouble in my microbiology class. Not trouble with the subject, oh no, I am excellent at microbiology, thank-you-very-much. No, my trouble is with the man who sits next to me. He’s like a small child and he took an instant dislike to me the instant we sat down at the same table.

I thought I’d attempt to be courteous and kind, possibly make a new friend.

“Hello, I’m Nicolas,” I had said pleasantly, offering my hand.

He had stared at it with a look that wasn’t quite disdain but wasn’t altogether friendly either.

“I guess we’ll be sitting here all year,” he finally said, the corner of his lip just itching to reach toward his nose.

I blinked, my benign smile faltering slightly.

“I guess so.”

He nodded as though confirming the untimely death of a soldier in his brigade. Then, finally, he smiled. Well, it was more of a smirk laced with grim resolution.

“My friends call me John, but you can just call me Wilson.”

At that moment, I had thought that he might have been joking.

I think so naively no longer.

Since that very first introduction, his blatant and unreasonable dislike for me has been the cause of many things embarrassing and unnecessary.

For instance, there was, what I like to refer to as, “The Over-Cooked Cherry Pie Incident.”

Sounds odd, doesn’t it?

It all started at a school fund-raising event. There was a festival celebrating rural America and I was on the Baking Squad. Yes, I had gotten roped into the Baking Squad by my then-girlfriend, Amanda, who, at the last minute, decided to switch committees with Wilson and ended up on the setup committee. Later, I found out that they were together behind my back, but that’s another story.

So Wilson and I ended up on the Baking Squad with six women and another guy and we, of course, were assigned to the same baking assignment: The Cherry Pie.

It’s at reminiscent times like these that I’m tempted to add “Of Doom” to that food label.

But anyway, Wilson and I were assigned the simple yet challenging task of baking cherry pies as they’re ordered for the bake sale.

It was first decided by one of the females in charge that we would make the filling because obviously Wilson and I couldn’t possibly agree on anything that easy.

We mixed the cherries with sugar, me getting slapped with the bag considerably more than once and him hogging the spoon. It was with the childish glee of a three year old whose just squashed a bug that I finally got the spoon long enough for him to get antsy.

Eventually, Christy, the Baking Squad head slavedriver –err, baker–, shouted at us to stop stirring like loons and get on with the pie.

That was the signal to start Dough Time.

Dough Time was the worst part of all. We didn’t have to make the dough, Christy and someone else had already taken care of that, but we did have to roll it out, and rolling out dough involved rolling pins. Two of them, in fact.

Is anyone aware of all the possible ways to prove that you are someone’s enemy using only flour and a rolling pin?

I am.

Unfortunately.

The first thing that happened was so inconspicuous and well planned that I didn’t even notice it happened until Christy yelled, “GET THAT FLOUR OFF YOUR BOTTOM, WEISS!” and Wilson snickered evilly.

The next wasn’t so nice. There was finally a lapse in our bickering and we were rolling almost companionably, when I feel something poke me in the arm.

“Sorry,” he said quite unconvincingly as he moved the rolling pin back to his side. I grunted out an acknowledgment and we went back to rolling.

Not five minutes later, I feel another jab.

“Sorry,” he mutters again, laughing harder.

It wasn’t long after that I felt the Third and Final Rolling Pin Jab. Guess where the Third and Final Rolling Pin Jab was?

Yup.

I howled in agony as the rolling pin “slipped” and slammed right between my legs, nearly pinning me to the wall behind us.

All of a sudden, the large, red face of Christy was up against mine looking livid.

“WEISS, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”she roared, a vein popping dangerously in her large forehead.

I gulped. A woman with an oven mitt should never, ever be messed with.

“I’m rolling dough, sir.”

She glowered at me and jabbed her mitt-clad hand at the dough. I slunk back over and started rolling again while Wilson laugh his stupid, grudge-holding bottom off.

Finally, and it was a great miracle, we got the dough rolled and set into the pie trays. We even got some filling in and the top on. Christy didn’t trust us in putting it in the oven, so she did that, and we were left with the task to watch it.

And what a task that was.

First, we got into a friendly discussion on politics. That turned a bit heated (duh) and ended up in a flour fight which, luckily, Christy didn’t notice. Once covered entirely in flour, we started a fiery debate over foods and restaurants.

Amidst our battling and insult exchange, the pie finished cooking. Not that we realized it or anything at first, but even we couldn’t miss the stench of a burning corpse rising from the oven vents.

Agreeing in something for once, we both grabbed our oven mitts and raced toward the door, upon which we were greeted by the full-blown rotting carcass odor.

Once at the door, our unison was cut off and we spent at least a minute shoving each other in and out of the way in an attempt to reach the first pie first.

Looking back upon it, I realize that the smartest thing for me to have done would have been to run away and get the fire extinguisher, letting him handle the pies. But of course, my ego got in the way and I grabbed that burnt cherry pie first.

Wilson scowled at me as Christy ran over, eyes popping and chins shaking.

“WEISS, WILSON!” she bellowed and we took a cartoon stance of leaning backwards as her word-wind pushed us over.

“Yes sir?” I asked her. She was a year ahead of me, so I thought it wise if I were respectful.

“WHY IS THE PIE BLACK?”

“He burnt it!” Wilson and I cried simultaneously.

“OH HE DID, DID HE?”

It’s amazing how much like a headmistress Christy can seem. She’s got the build for it, the voice, the ability to inspire terror in the hearts of children. She was quite frightening at the moment.

We both nodded vigorously and she grabbed the pie out of my hands, shoving it at my face.

“DO YOU SEE THIS, WEISS?” I nodded and she moved the pie to Wilson. “DO YOU SEE THIS, WILSON?” He nodded and she finally set the pie back on my frozen hands. “THAT IS WASTED MONEY. WASTED! I HOPE YOU LOSE FIVE BUCKS.” And she walked away, steam pouring out of every exposed orifice in her plump body.

Wilson and I looked at each other and I thought that, maybe, just maybe, we’d have one of those rare moments you always read about where the enemies realize their differences and end up becoming best friends. Yes, I really thought that.

Until I felt cherry filling oozing down my back as a metal tray slid down my face. I noticed him laughing, leaning onto the doorhandle of the now-empty oven. But he wouldn’t be laughing for long. As soon as I scraped the red goop off my eyelids, I took aim and hurled the pie at him. Noticing this, he ducked, and guess who it hit?

“WEISS!”

I still have bruises from where Christy flogged me with a rolling pin.