Mold

"Mom! Tim got mold in the cup holder!" My second-eldest brother groans, as I cling to his side in the stuffy 3-seater sat at the back of the van.

The fluffy, greenish thing growing within the beige compartment was horrifying. I swallow as it seems to pulse with every bump and jolt of the wheels, snuggling closer into my begrudging sibling.

I can hear Tim's adamant disagreement-- Aidan left rock pops in there last week!

I listen to the crackle of a pre-teen boys voice through his chest that my ear is incessantly pressing against. "No! Tim was last back in here with cotton candy!" He says with a wave of his DS.

Realistically, I know it was me with the black liquorice. My grandma had handed me it from the front knowing my sweet tooth. I was never one to deny candy, and it was the first time I had ever tried it despite Aidan's assurance I'd hate it. I loved her too much to verbalize my detest and sneakily spat it into the cup holder when no one was noticing perhaps over a month ago, wiping the drool on a hand-sewn pillow that left a black smear mark I swore I didn't know how it got there,

I smile softly to myself, leaning into the familiarity of a family vacation.