The Love Hypothesis. Laura Steven

I hear footsteps climbing up the stairs. Panicking, I stuff the pills into my school backpack just in time. There’s a polite tap at my door – it must be Dad. Vati never knocks.

      ‘Come in,’ I call, trying and failing to make my shaky voice sound as normal as possible.

      Dad walks in and immediately freezes. That’s when I realize I’m still cradling the deformed zucchini in my left hand, the condom perched on the bed in front of me. Dad looks at me, aghast.

      ‘Oh, no! This isn’t . . . I’m not . . . Vati, he was giving me a demo –’

      ‘I’ll come back later,’ Dad mutters, even though he believes both contractions and poor vocal clarity to be signs of a weak mind. He shuffles back out the door, closing it too fast behind him, and practically sprints back downstairs. From a man who is usually so controlled, this is nothing short of bone-chilling.

      Sighing deeply, I pull out my phone to text my group chat with Keiko and Gabriela.

       Why do vegetables have to be so phallic? It’s a serious design flaw.

      Gabriela does the crying-laughing emoji, and Keiko replies instantly.

       Vegetables have no redeeming qualities. How many times do I have to tell you?