The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline

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"Can't I even have dessert?" called Caroline Tate through her bedroom door.

"If you'd just try a bite of your dinner, Caroline. You wouldn't have to eat all of it," her mother called back.

"Just a bite," called her brother, "of this delicious, gray, cold squishy eggplant!"

"I wasn't talking to you, Beastly!"

Caroline's brother was named James Priestly Tate. Most people called him J.P. Caroline called him Beastly, and she really thought he was: beastly beastly beastly. J.P. was thirteen, and even her mother admitted that thirteen was a beastly age.

Eleven felt pretty beastly too, Caroline decided, when you were sent to your room at half-past eight on a Friday night, just because you wouldn't taste your dinner.

Her mother opened her bedroom door and poked her head inside.

"Caroline, if you'd just try one bite. It's the principle of the thing."

"I hate it. I hate the way it looks, and I hate the way it smells. It's too horrible to talk about. Horrible horrible horrible. Anyway, Mom, psychologists all say that you should never force children to eat. Especially eggplant."

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