Sausage Fingers

All three of us teenagers were stuffed in the back of the car. My brother’s hairy legs were beginning to stick to mine. My sister’s hair continued to drape around my nose. Every now and then I would attempt to blow it away with no luck. Her skin began to peel its way off of mine as she let out a huff in annoyance. Our teenage hormones were running rampant. My brother’s head banged against the window in a rhythmic pattern. The AC was only showering my mother and step-father in the front. Me and my sibling’s legs were in a constant battle for space in the back. Cody, my brother in all six foot seven glory, usually won. 

My mother was chatting constantly about Farmville while my stepdad pretended to care, nodding every other minute. Tenderly I shifted. The middle seat had made my ass fall asleep. Shifting wasn’t easy, if I moved to close to my brother he would shove me in another direction, and if I moved to close to my sister, then I would face social torment. I moved closer to my sister hoping to not have her acknowledge my new presence.

We had formed a new lingo in the amount of elbows placed in your side. One meant you were moving too much, two elbows meant stop talking, and the three elbows to my gut meant stop touching me. My anger flared and I huffed in annoyance.

“Well where would you like me to move?” I asked.

“Just move,” she said.

I moved towards my brother who lifted his head just to shove me back towards my sister. It became a game between the two. Shoving me back and forth. My brother finally said, “I don’t want her.” Pushing me roughly into my sister.

My mother turned around for just a few seconds to remind us that she would turn this vehicle around. She wouldn’t, we knew that, but a mother’s threat was enough to scare us. She resumed her game, explaining how she needed to plow her field. We all snickered, after all we were teenagers. My mother glared yet again at us. We automatically stopped.

My sister and I were now pushed towards each other as Cody was stretching out his long limbs. She looked at me like it was all my fault. She whispered in my ear, “If we get stranded and don’t make it to Florida we will be eating you first.”

My eyes rose, and my chest was beating rapidly. My sister took after my mother and her threats were enough to make me want to scramble out of the car and run. “Why would you eat me first?” I asked.

My questioned gained the attention of the rest of the occupants in the car. My sister loved nothing more than an audience. She moved her milky skin as far away as possible. Her chest began to rise, and this was her encore to finish the show.

“Well we would eat you because you have sausage fingers.” 

My family was laughing, but I was stuck starring at my fingers. My poor digits were short and rounded enough, to resemble a sausage link. Yet the color was all wrong. My hands were white and a deep crimson red. My fingers resembled more of a grape tomato. I knew my sister well enough to know she would never eat a tomato, or anything that looks like a tomato. So at the end of the day she would never eat me.

 

Ofallon, Missouri