Mashed Potatoes


I look over at the potato. It is sitting there, so lonely. I want to talk to it, but I can’t bring myself to. Every time I get near it, my palms start to sweat, and my heart races. Whenever I look at it I can’t take my eyes off of it. This potato is beautiful. More than beautiful. This potato is all I want. But I can’t even talk to the love of my life.

The bell rings, signaling lunch is over. I walk down the crowded hallway of Brandon High School towards history class. This is the class I dread all day. Our teacher, Mrs. Collins, is very… enthusiastic. She starts off every class going around the room, asking each person about their morning. She believes that every moment in your life is history.

When she says, “So Ian, what did you do today?” I usually am very vague, or I make something up. I don’t feel the need to tell my whole class that this morning I had potato for breakfast, or I dreamed about potato. Potato is my obsession.

I think it all started when my grandma died. She raised me when my mother was busy chasing my dad or drinking. We grew quite close, and every morning she would make me something with potato. Her pajama shirt that she always wore said “Spud Buds” with a potato on it. With her, everything was potato, so when she died it was the part of her that I could hold on to.

Today when Mrs. Collins asked me what did you do today? I said “My mom made me hash browns for breakfast.” No one knew how much this pleased me. They think that it is just something to say so Mrs. Collins moves on to the next person. To me those hash browns mean so much more.


I get off of the bus and start walking to my house. I live in a small house on Arthur Street.

I walk down the sad little street. There is trash everywhere, and the air smells like cigarette smoke. I can hear fighting in one of the houses. I look straight ahead towards my blue house with the broken swing in the front yard.

When I reach the door, I pull my key from my backpack and walk inside. I was not expecting to see my mom there, drunk, and with a man. This morning, when I woke up and ate those amazing hash browns, she seemed just fine. She said she was leaving for work at nine. She works in the deli at the grocery store on 6th. That should not require any alcohol. I ran to my room and crawled into bed with my potatoes before she could say anything.

She walked into my room with a bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese and a Capri sun juice pouch just when I started to think about eating one of my many potatoes to avoid going to the kitchen and seeing her. I take the food and sit on my bed facing the opposite direction. I did not want to talk to her. She tried to walk in front of me, but I turned my head.

“He was at the deli getting some sandwich meat, and he had a bottle of scotch. I asked him what he was going to do with scotch and roast beef. We got to talking, and a few drinks and roast beef slices later, we ended up here.”



I could smell alcohol and cigarette smoke on her breath. I said nothing in return, so she said the only thing she could think of. “I’m sorry”

I turned my head to look at her. I could feel the anger boiling inside of me. She had no right to do that. I know that her life hasn’t been easy, but neither has mine. I haven’t gotten higher then a C for two years and I lie to my history teacher every day about the simplest things.

“Why would you do that? I know you still miss Dad, but what compels you to bring home a man you barely even know?” I say, my voice rising.

“Losing your father was very hard for me to get over! I had to raise your sorry little ass by myself. Do you know how hard that was? Raising someone who has an obsession with potatoes? I don’t even understand that!”

“You didn’t even raise me! Grandma raised me. You were too busy drinking your problems away with Dad!”

By now this had become a full on shouting match. We both said some personal things and it ended when my mom started to cry. Before she left my room she said, “I only left because I didn’t want you to see me all broken down. I hit rock bottom when he left, and I wanted you to be proud of me.”

I turned away and crawled into bed. I just wanted to be with my potatoes and go to sleep.

I dream about my happy place. It is the same dream I always have when I am sad or angry. It is not a place with potatoes everywhere, or in a magical castle. It is by my Grandmother’s side. I smell last night’s tater-tot casserole heating up in the microwave as we dance around the kitchen, listening to Bon Jovi. When the microwave beeps we give ourselves generous helpings. We dive in, telling jokes and listening to the other person talk about their day.

I wake up and smile. I love that dream. It brings me back to the times before my life started to fall apart. Other kids have it worse, but when you find out the person that raised you died and you pick up an obsession with potatoes, it starts to get pretty hard. To the rest of the school I am just another kid. No potatoes, nothing special. I start to get sad, so I go back to my happy place.

I remember when I would get home from school and Grandma would be waiting for me with a snack and a new game to play. Then, when she started getting sick, it all changed. There was no snack, no game. And then one day, I walked into the living room and saw my mom waiting for me. Not my grandma. My mom explained what happened. I miss my grandma.

I look at the time and realize that I need to get going if I want to get on the bus. I put on some clothes and rush out the door. I still don’t want to see my mom. I run down the street.

I am breathing hard as I climb onto the bus. I take my normal seat in the front of the bus, and stare out the window as the bus drives on.

After a fight with my mom, I am usually pretty quiet. I try to cover it up, but some people have noticed. I don’t interact with any of my friends, and I am fairly quiet in class. All of my friends live on the other side of town. They have never been to my house or met my mom. My home life has always been private.

When we arrive at school, I take a deep breath and put on a smile. I drag through the day acting like nothing is wrong. When the bell rings to let us go to lunch, I realize I forgot to grab five dollars out of my mom’s purse for lunch money.
I decide to walk around school until the bell rings. Mrs. Collins greets me with a warm smile. When the bell rings, Mrs. Collins goes around the circle and asks everyone how they are.

“Hello Ian. How’s your day so far?”

I take a deep breath. I am sick of saying everything is ok when it’s not. My cheeks are starting to hurt from all of the smiling, and I need to talk about my mom. That is when I say it. I tell them about my mom and the man, the shouting match we had in my room, and how I have an obsession with potatoes. Then I start to cry. It is mortifying. I am crying in front of my whole class.

She tells me to skip the rest of the class and go down to Mrs. Brown’s office. When I get there, my eyes are red from crying and my nose is running. Everyone was in class, so avoiding people wasn’t a problem. I knocked on the door. A voice as smooth as honey welcomes me into her office.

She asks me what is wrong, and I tell the whole story again. And I add that my whole class now thinks of me as a freak with an obsession with potatoes and a crybaby. But, this time I didn’t cry. Something about her voice makes me calm down. I figure that is the main reason she was hired.

When I was done, she told me to go back to class, but tomorrow at lunch come down to her office. I was nervous. Why didn’t she talk to me about it today? Why do I have to meet her at lunch? Will I get to eat? All of these thoughts go through my head as I walk into Mrs. Collin’s class.

She looks at me with an apologetic look in her eye as she motions for me to take my seat. Some kids looked at me strangely. After all, the last time they saw me I was in tears.





* * *



When I knock on Mrs. Brown’s door, she tells me to wait outside until she calls me in. I wait in a chair that is quite uncomfortable. I start to think about what she’s doing in there and why it takes so long.

When she called me in, my palms are starting to sweat. I have never had counseling before and I didn’t know what to expect. I walk into the small room. Surrounding me are hundreds of potatoes.

“I thought that not only could we tell about your mom, but we could also talk about your obsession. But for now, the decorations are just so you feel comfortable.” Mrs. Brown states.

For the next hour we talk about my mom. She asks me about my grades and if it’s hard to do homework. I tell her that it is easy, because my mom is almost never around. Then she asks me why my mom is never home. I answer one question, and then she comes up with more questions. It is a never-ending spiral of questions.

When I get home that day I feel better. Even though all I did was answer questions, it really helped me realize what I have to do. I stand on my front porch. I can’t hear anything inside, but the car is in the driveway. I open the door. When I look inside I see my mom, sitting on the couch with a snack.

I walk over and sit next to her.

“I’m sorry. I am sorry I didn’t understand. Dad left fifteen years ago and you can date other men. I am sorry that I never trusted you. And I’m sorry for not talking to you after Grandma died. It was a hard time for both of us and you needed me as much as I needed you.”

The next day when the bell rings, I sit at my desk in Mrs. Collin’s room smiling from ear to ear. It felt so good to talk to my mom. When Mrs. Collins asked how everyone’s day am, I smiling. I am not lying when I say that it is going wonderfully and it feels as if a new part of my life has begun. I catch Mrs. Collin’s eye, and I know that she knows that I was not lying.