Fraction Pie by Christine Naprava

Fraction Pie

 

I hated math,

didn’t mind fractions,

loved pizza,

so naturally,

when Mrs. T slapped those magnetized slices of pizza

to the whiteboard

and called them fractions,

I lost it.

The slices were two-dimensional,

but I fantasized in 3D:

thin crust that wasn’t too thin,

orange-red sauce that was neither too sweet nor too tart,

just the right amount of bubbly, browned mozzarella

to cover all that tomatoey goodness.

Math fell before lunch,

a simultaneous delight and torture.

On the board, Mrs. T mixed and matched

the pepperoni slices with the plain,

something I’d never dared to do in real life.

I was a strictly plain girl, no pepperoni.

2 slices of plain side by side

and 2 slices of pepperoni side by side

represented ½ plain, ½ pepperoni.

3 plain, a magnificent cheesy trio,

and only 1 pepperoni

represented ¾ plain, ¼ pepperoni.

Now fast forward to the lunch line,

my Styrofoam tray held expectantly in hand.

Plain or pepperoni? the lunch lady asked with a forced smile.

Both! I shouted with glee, too blinded

by hunger,

by cheese,

by grease

to do the math.

Christine Naprava is a writer from South Jersey who eats pizza in some way, shape, or form at least once a day. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Studio One, Soundings East, Punk Noir Magazine, Literary Yard, The Daily Drunk, Outcast Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sledgehammer Lit, the Lunch Break Zine, and Tattie Zine. She tweets @CNaprava and Instagrams @cnaprava