There was a quesadilla in the bathroom.
A nervous boy, aged twelve and a bit too short for his age, appeared in the doorway. He often was compared to a chihuahua by his siblings.
“Yes mamá?” he said.
The middle-aged woman turned around to face her son. “Why is there a quesadilla on the bathroom floor?”
The boy wrinkled his brow, perplexed.
“Perdón, mamá?” he answered.
She narrowed her eyes down at him, as he barely came up to her chest level. Wordlessly, she stepped aside.
Low and behold, there was a quesadilla lying in front of the toilet.
“Again, why is there a perfectly good quesadilla on my freshly cleaned floor?” The woman placed her hands on her hips and studied her son’s face.
The boy was at a loss for words.
The woman tapped a chancla-clad foot impatiently. The boy became instantly terrified. Despite it, he remained silent, truly unable to account for the quesadilla’s existence.
Instead of what the boy had expected, his mother said, “Eat it.”
The boy’s jaw dropped open.
“E-eat it, mamá?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Martin,” said the woman. She continued to tap her foot. The boy knew better than to protest further.
“You have five minutes,” she said as brushed passed him into the hallway. Before she was out of sight, she added, “And if I hear anything like a toilet flush, you won’t be able to sit for a week.”
The boy looked down at the quesadilla. Where in Mother Marie’s name did it come from?
He walked up to it and bent his knees to get a better look. It appeared to be a perfectly normal quesadilla. Did she really expect him to eat it? He quickly answered his own question; his mother never joked.
Martin looked behind him, expecting to see either his mother, father, or any of his siblings standing there, laughing at him and enjoying the joke they were playing. Nobody was there. He looked back at the quesadilla and studied it for a time.
“It’s been three minutes,” his mother’s voice carried to him.
He picked up the quesadilla with both hands. To his surprise, it was still warm. The boy brought it up to his noise and smelled it. The quesadilla was perhaps the best thing he’d ever smelled. Suddenly, he became aware of how hungry he really was.
He took a bite.
Instantly, his tastes buds flooded with flavor. It was if the Pope had ordained it; as if God himself had cooked it in Heaven’s kitchen.
Soon, the whole thing was gone. The boy patted his belly. It was the most satisfying thing he had ever eaten. A light tingle ran up his body. It was a pleasant feeling.
As he stood up, his mother appeared back in the doorway. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see.”
She checked his pockets, the cabinets, even behind the toilet. Satisfied that the quesadilla had been eaten, she looked down at her son, when she noticed the top of his head was almost to her chin now.
“Martin, have you grown?” she said.
The boy smiled, feeling and looking perfectly at ease. “I’m a growing boy, mamá.”
Ever since that day, Martin always checked the bathroom first thing in the morning, but he never again found another mysterious bathroom quesadilla.