Perfect Little Candies
Author’s Note: This is that face-reddening story my family loves to tell over and over again to people we meet about my childhood. Enjoy my internal blushing…
Her eyes flickered to me, who had been glaring from inside the house. They fluttered down from my bare, curled up toes to my printed leggings to my stained poodle long-sleeve shirt. In disdain, she patted down her dress, one identical to the flower girl dress I wore to my uncle’s wedding, except shinier and this, she wore to my cousin’s 2-year-old birthday party. The whites of her fur cardigan, pure and chaste, matched the silver dress which bounced light, shimmering under the fluorescent lights of the apartment. The skirt stopped just below her knees, showing off her white ruffled socks and pink ballet flats, the same shade as her handbag. After scanning me, her eyes made their way up to meet my glare. The corner of her lip turned up ever so slightly, enhancing the glint in her eye. Glancing back to my aunt, who was ushering her out, she picked up her pink handbag and my bag of candy, clutching them tight to her body, side-eying me once again. Snapping back to her departure, her lips slowly pulled into a perfect smile, deepening the dimples on either side of her face. I could feel my eyes at the back of my head. Her plastered smile and fabricated politeness ceased to fool me, but no adult could resist that dimple cheeked imposter. She waved goodbye looking directly past her godmother, my aunt, and resting her eyes on me, grasping my bag of candy even tighter than before.
Candy was an occasion for my six-year-old self, something rarely enjoyed. At the time, my family believed that I was allergic to sugar. They thought the dry patches of eczema quilting over my skin were irritated by my glucose intake. And because of the high sugar content in fruits, I rarely consumed that either. Halloween, a typical child’s favorite holiday, was worsened when all my candies were confiscated and donated before I even changed out of costume. The only times I was permitted to eat sweets were on birthdays and Christmas.
Upon walking into my favorite aunt’s apartment, my eyes glistened as I noticed the pile of sweets on top of the grand piano. Each of the clear goody bags contained a different variety of candy, sealed with a colored ribbon. Widening in awe, my eyes perused over pastel-colored candies, vibrant-colored candies, star-shaped ones, skeleton-shaped ones, plain sugar flavors, soft candies, hard candies, mini gum-balls, more than I could ever imagine. One particular bag of fruit-flavored pills of joy caught my attention, fancier Wonka Runts candies, filled with mini bananas, green apples, oranges, strawberries, and purple grapes. The assortment of colors put my head in a spin and made my mouth drool. Maybe it was the fact that Willy Wonka endorsed the delicacy or my craving for sugar, but I needed to know what those artificial fruits tasted like and no one could strip that from me.
Seeing my attraction to the bag of candy, my mom gave me approval, saying, “Yes, you can have one, but you have to wait until everyone else gets their bags.” So I obeyed, camping out underneath the piano on a few cushions, waiting for my moment to finally arrive. Any child who showed the slightest affinity for my bag of candy faced my glower. During moments where the entire group was gathered, I left my station to join the party, relieved to have a break. At cake time, I witnessed two-year-old blowing candles on a cream-filled fruit cake. Being allergic to dairy, I sat there watching everyone else courteously taking bites of their cake, silently consoling myself with the belief that I would be able to taste the sweetness of my candy soon enough.
But at the moment I stepped away from the bathroom, I could hear muffled calls from my aunt, gathering the kids to distribute candies. Someone asked, “Where’s Zoe?” but I heard my mother say, “She’s in the bathroom, but go ahead, she’ll just take what’s leftover. It’s not like she can eat it all…” I heard laughing. I hastened my business in the bathroom, fumbling to unlock the door, sprinting to the tempo of my pounding heartbeat, and drying off my washed hands on my shirt along the way. As I arrived on the scene, the group began to disperse, causing the weight of disappointment to sag upon my tight shoulders. From across the room, I noticed one last bag sitting on the piano. Mine. I ran with my heart caught up in my throat, praying that my miniature fruits were still there. My heart sank into the pits of my stomach. No apples or bananas but boring old bones. I had been waiting for this moment for the entire duration of the party but my opportunity dissipated into the air. My rare sugary treat was gone. In one motion, I grabbed the bag and crinkled up the crisp cut plastic, clawing into the bland sugar.
With fury hiding behind my tear-filled eyes, I plastered on a smile of my own, forcing my cheeks to rise and my lips to creep up to my ears. I had an epiphany. All I have to do is take all the candy back, find mine and give someone a different bag! The wide-eyed children stared at me as I snatched their candies away, throwing baby-proofed darts towards me. Hugging bags of candy in my pudgy arms, some falling out, I gathered all the kids in one circle, designating the candies I didn’t want to another oblivious child. Desperately, I sought for my bag of Runts, eying everyone closely. But after flipping through every bag, I still lost this one. Somehow through all my redistributing, I still ended up with the bag of bones. As I handed out the last bag, I heard a familiar click at the door.
“We’re so sorry for leaving early but she has a class in the morning,” someone said.
My aunt replied, “It’s alright, as long as you enjoyed yourself. Here, take these bags of candy, they’re extras.” I dropped the bones and ran to the door.
The culprit herself was smiling, holding my joy in her hands, waving goodbye with glee. She said, smiling, “thank you, Gan Ma!” She clutched my candies tight, beaming with triumph. The elevator door opened and she stepped in, still waving. She knew.
The elevator door closed and my aunt’s did too. My hands were still empty.
