On the top shelf of the chilliest fridge, a winding line of strawberries waited their turn for a position in the Whizzing Bubble. It was the fridge’s newest gelly mold and the first made with rose soda. A little strawberry stood on the tips of her leaves, straining to see the front of the line.
Wow, there it is.
Reflected in her eyes were the Whizzing Bubble’s three pink domes and a cream minaret. She pictured herself floating in the center tier with all the other great strawberries, chatting about sugar dust and how store-bought custards were positively tasteless. The line scooched forward without her.
“Hey, drool berry! Move up!” someone shouted a few spots behind her.
“Sorry!” She scurried to close the gap, but her eyes were already drifting toward the mold again. Now she was imagining herself on the cover of The New Yolk Times.
Not every strawberry would be picked for the Whizzing Bubble, but she was the reddest, shiniest, and sweetest.
“Residue check!” bellowed a chubby strawberry strutting down the line. The Whizzing Bubble required second-tier berries to have at least one trace of gelly from an earlier mold. It counted as experience. As the chubby strawberry passed, berries twisted to display their streaks and spots. One wore a shimmering fleck like a medal. “I got it when the champagne gelly was infused with gold flakes!”
Impressive. Mine’s only from an off-brand lime gelly.
Satisfied, the chubby strawberry stalked back to the line leader with his report.
A sourdough could have finished rising by the time our strawberry reached the front. And now, before her, stood a strawberry who looked more like two that never separated. She wore the Whizzing Bubble line leader aiguillette of licorice ropes, sweet crystals, and bitter chocolate. Her eyes bore into our little strawberry.
Don’t be nervous. She’s a strawberry just like you. We are no different.
“Hi! I’m…”
The line leader tutted. “Hush now, tiny weed.” She had dismissed at least a hundred strawberries already and looked over our eager little berry for two seconds.
Eek, it’s a sign. One second more than the others got.
Three seconds.
Honey water, that’s two!
At last, the line leader spoke. “Not today. You can come back tomorrow.”
The little strawberry sat on top of a milk bottle and watched as the line leader passed a handful of strawberries into the Whizzing Bubble. Even the guy who called her “drool berry” made it.
It’s too early to sour! Just look like you belong next time.
She spent the night studying Whizzie trends. On the telly, a handsome strawberry coated his smooth, seedless skin with glistening protective syrup. “We’ve been removing our seeds.”
“Is that why you Whizzies are all so gorgeous?” the journalist asked.
The Whizzie laughed as though this was his first time hearing such flattery. “It makes us look sleek, sure! We’re doing it for the seeds, though.”
Seed removal was irreversible.
“Normally, when we’re planted, we turn to pulp to feed our seeds,” he explained. “But now a special formula feeds them better than our pulp ever could. They still sprout and we get to live as long as we want!”
The little strawberry looked down at her own seeds, then back at his smooth skin on the telly. The line leader gave me a single glance before deciding if I belonged.
The Whizzing Bubble sold the formula as Whizard Whips, by the jar, and at a considerable discount for the first five hundred customers. The little strawberry ordered three jars then searched for a sharp pick in the kitchen. Getting her first seed off took more than a few tries, and some skin peeled off with it. But by the fifth, they popped right out.
As she dislodged each of the two hundred seeds, a little part of her body did not know what to do with itself.
She dabbed cherry juice over the torn spots. There. No one will know. The line leaders are going to see I am just like the Whizzies.
The next morning, she was only a few paces from the line leader when she felt a strawberry staring at her.
“You picked them all out?” His eyes were black and shiny. He reached for her skin, and she swatted his hand away. “You really did! How desperate!” His eyes dropped to her residue. “And with that? Was your mold made of lime? What, did you live in a government ration tin?” A few strawberries overheard and tried to muffle their giggles.
Don’t cry. He doesn’t need to try half as hard as you do and doesn’t get it. This is just how life is.
The line leader glanced toward the laughter and followed their gazes to the little strawberry’s residue. She promptly pointed our strawberry to the exit.
That evening, the little strawberry wandered down to the bottom bins of the fridge, hiding herself in a celery stalk. She thought she might shrivel like a raisin and stay there.
Her friend from rouging class, the only Whizzie she knew, came down to find her. Her residue sent tiny pink bubbles into the air.
“I don’t have much time, but I got your message. What’s going on?”
Don’t cry. She will think you’re too weak for her mold.
Our strawberry stiffened her jaw and told her friend what had happened. The Whizzie pressed a hand to her chest. “What a disgusting piece of jam, that guy! And the line leader rejected you instead of him?”
Her face softened. “We have to fix this and, obviously I don’t think this about you, but you’re aiming too high for your residue. Try the bottom tier tomorrow. I’ll put in a word for you with the line leader.”
“Really?! Thank you! I have no idea how to repay you!”
“Don’t mention it. It was good to see you.” She glanced at the strawberry’s lime residue and seedless skin. She grimaced, but quickly covered her disgust with a smile and left.
A rose bubble cloud lingered and the little strawberry ran through it.
The next day the little strawberry found herself in line with those who at least kept their thoughts to themselves. But this time, as she neared the front, she saw a friendly face among the Whizzies. Her friend’s rose fizz brightened when she spotted the little strawberry, and she rushed over to the line leader to whisper something.
A few moments later, the strawberry’s ritual began. “Hi. I’m…”
“In.” The line leader waved her through with a handful of others.
Could this really be happening?
One foot in front of the next.
Her mind raced through all the people who had supported her. She would buy her dad a boba bath and for her Whizzie friend…
A great big vat of simple syrup. No, wait, maybe those pearls from the freezer oysters. Yes, she would love that!
The strawberry felt like a rocket pop about to blast through the ceiling.
It’s real! Remember all of this. It’ll be in your mem…
An arm shot out a moment before she crossed the threshold. His licorice ropes hit her in the face. “Not you, little red.” He stared at her residue.
“But I was told…”
“What would the Whizzies think of themselves if we let the likes of you in?” He gestured the next strawberry forward. “I’ll be speaking to the other line leader. I could have you permanently banned for bribery.”
This is real. Remember all of this.
Her brain emptied. Her stomach fell and acid curdled in her throat. She staggered home.
Still red. Still sweet. Still shiny.
It’s the lime. It’s me. Everyone is right—I’m not worth picking. I don’t deserve a mold.
She found the sharp pick again and, this time, chose a heavy mallet to go with it.
It’s a deformity. A blight.
Residue was not meant to come off. Once molded, it became part of the fruit.
Using the side of a ration tin as a mirror, she delivered the first blow, which tore off several layers of flesh. She yelped. The next took a chunk of her head.
Don’t cry…
She cried as she removed the rest. Pieces of her body fell to the floor, partially encased in lime gelly. When she finished, she gathered up any clean bits of flesh and placed them with her seeds.
Maybe you can eat this.
The next morning, she quietly stood in the bottom-tier line again, staring at the ground while the strawberries around her whispered.
“What is wrong with her head?”
When she looked up, the mold reflected back in her eyes. She returned her attention to the floor and kicked at a drop of shoyu that had become sticky with age.
There was a new line leader. This one didn’t even speak to her. Instead, he stood there blinking. She only moved when the strawberry behind her pushed her to the side.
And there she stayed, wondering if she too had grown sticky with age. Her Whizzie friend passed by and pretended not to see her. But when the little strawberry finally went home, her dad was waiting for her.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she told her dad.
“You’re too proud. Low’r your standards.”
He’s right. A strawberry from a lime mold asking for a place with the Whizzies is arrogant. Who do I think I am?
Her dad did not mind his lime residue. He enjoyed being out of a mold and had no intention of returning to one. “I already have ’nuf sugar and jiggle to last me,” he would say whenever people asked if he wanted to go back into a mold.
“Listen, darlin’, I’ve got a buddy workin’ at the Whizzing Bubble. He’s a lime, like us. Tells me they need seedless strawberries, sumthin’ about not havin’ to pay for sprouting rights since ya got no seeds that need ya anymore. Go around the back next time. You’ll see a line there.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Alright, sweetheart. Don’t thank me yet.” His hands trembled from age or nerves, maybe both.
She kissed him on the cheek and went to bed.
It took her a while to make her way around the Whizzing Bubble, offering plenty of time to think about her dad and the bowl of cane juice oatmeal he made for her that morning. My dad shouldn’t have to take care of me so much. I should be taking care of him.
As her thoughts swirled, she found the back line hidden behind katsu curry leftovers. Scattered about her were hundreds of piles of diced-up strawberries, some talking to themselves. A large strawberry with lime residue on his brow strode toward her, a sizable knife in hand.
“Your dad sent you, right?”
She nodded yes. She didn’t need to tell herself not to cry.
“You get what’s happening here?” He jerked his head toward the piles.
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you’re too good for this?” He smiled and winked at her. His residue glinted under the fridge lights.
“No,” she said. “Of course not.”
He held out the knife. “Now, it’s not right for me to start it, sweetpea. But I’ll finish it for you. OK?”
She nodded, took the knife, and heaved it down through her head, splitting herself open so that she no longer had to feel the weight of her body on her feet. Her cute, little leafy feet.
True to his word, the line leader took the knife and diced her into little pieces.
Squish squish whirrrr went the pulping machine.
Her body glided on the belt toward it.
A week later, her order arrived: three jars of Whizard Whips, filled with the reddest, shiniest, and sweetest strawberry pulp. It smelled a bit like lime.