TOMATO TORMENT

The green population sign smacked me into reality with a whopping eight hundred and sixty three people, as we crept out of the city limits.

To be fair, this was my parents' idea, not poor Gran's.

You need responsibility, Lidia, and time away from boys.

For a brief moment, I thought they were kidding, until I came home on the last day of school to a packed suitcase and a stern 'talking to.'

"We're not in Kansas anymore," I mumbled.

Gran looked over; glasses nestled on her nose. "What was that, Hun?"

"Nothing," I said, looking down at my worn jean shorts and tennis shoes that she suggested.

The scenery of thick mossy forests turned into a dirt road and a clearing, with a huge shed and a slew of pickups. "What in the hillbilly?"

"Alright," Gran said. "Donny will get you settled. Just walk to the office, and call me when you're done for the day."

My mouth dropped at the acres of tomato fields behind the shed. An old truck dawdled down the rows, letting people off as they picked tomatoes and tossed them into big  bins.

This can't be my side hustle. God, have mercy. 

"Gran," I pleaded, trying to maneuver my way out of this. "It's one hundred degrees today, and I'm working outside? Do you not love me anymore?"

She laughed and narrowed her eyes that matched her blueish-gray hair. "Sweet Pickle," she said, my infamous nickname. "This will build character. I worked here when I was a girl. But, I have a hair appointment in thirty minutes." She shooed me. "Get."

I got out, my paper-sack lunch tucked to my chest, and walked over the gravel toward a small office. I focused on my worn shoes, ignoring the curious eyes around me. 

Don't mind me, I'm just dying slowly on the inside. 

The boss sat behind a desk, wearing overalls and a straw hat. "You must be Georgia's grand-youngin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come on, I'll show you around."

I followed him, passed an industrial freezer and toward the end of a conveyor belt. 

"These are your boxes. That kid in the loft will send them down." He grabbed a box, sat it down and pointed toward the conveyor belt. "When the tomatoes come, place them in the box like this."

I watched his dirty hands organize the tomatoes in the box, place them on a railing and slide them down the line.

Sweat slid down my spine. Perfect. 

"Alright," he said and abruptly left.

Sighing, I grabbed the box and filled it up, watching the people around me. I went to  push the box and someone caught it.

I glanced up at a guy around my age, deep chocolate eyes and a dimpled smile. His t-shirt fit his impressive biceps nicely and his backward baseball cap made him look like an all-American boy. 

"I'm Jax," he said. "I'm stacking your boxes."

A smile crawled up my face.

Take that, Dad.