The Biscuit Was the Wrong Shape

The biscuit was round. Bea wanted the triangle one. There was no triangle one. This was a DISASTER.

The feeling came up from Bea's feet. Up through her knees. Up through her tummy. All the way to the top of her head. It was big. It was hot. It had absolutely no interest in being reasonable.

Bea's feet went STOMP. The floor said nothing. Bea's feet went STOMP STOMP STOMP. The floor still said nothing. The floor was very annoying.

Bea's hands squeezed into two tight balls. She squeezed so hard she thought maybe she would squeeze a hole right through the middle of Tuesday.

Her face went red. Her face went very red. Her face went a colour that doesn't have a name yet. The dog looked at Bea. The dog left the room. Even the dog.

The feeling got bigger. And bigger. And BIGGER. It was enormous. It was the biggest thing in the house. It was possibly the biggest thing in the whole street. The biscuit sat there. Round. Saying nothing. Being smug about it.

Then — big arms. Not fixing arms. Not explaining arms. Just — arms. Warm and a bit squashy and smelling like the smell that means safe. The arms picked Bea up.

The feeling was still big. Then it was a bit smaller. The arms didn't say anything about that. The arms just kept being arms.

Bea's hands went soft. Her feet stopped. Her face went back to its normal colour. (The one with a name.)

She looked at the biscuit. It was still round. She ate it anyway. It tasted fine.

The dog came back.