Nemesis

“Alright class! Let’s set down our books and put them in our desks.” Miss Wright pauses, allotting time for the slower children in the class to understand the sheer magnitude of the task at hand. It was time for the macaroni challenge, a single event I had spent at least six hours preparing for. A considerable portion of my life, yes, but one must be prepared for such moments in time to assure victory. But most importantly, victory over David.

He was my former best friend, an avid companion through the building block battlefields and tabletop drawing days, where admittedly, my drawings were always better than his. A good friend, but ultimately, my understudy. Yet one day, I saw him escaping class early, taking the bucket of building blocks that were obviously mine, the teal blue lid with the maroon body and black handle. From that day onward, David was no longer my best friend, nor my friend at all, he was my nemesis.

“Alright so you’re going to have ten minutes after I hand out the plates and glue. There’s a bucket of pasta here.” Miss Wright places a plastic bin filled with an assortment of gluten. “The winner will receive the prestigious title, Macaroni Monarch, and a cupcake!” She begins handing out the plates and glue. 

I know the glue, I’ve tasted it, I understand it with all my senses. Any good architect knows this simplistic resource, plentiful in quantity. I am sure, however, that David will be competing with me once again, and after the building block disaster last week, the amateur artist will never embarrass me again! As we all make our way towards the front to collect our invaluable ingredients in creating art, I studied my former underling’s movements carefully.

Yes! Yes, you ignorant peasant. You utter fool, everyone knows that the swirled pasta will never create a suitably strong substratum. Your Empire will crumble like that of the Ancient Egyptians after crippling economic and social issues, and I will be the conquering Romans! My suitably sourced straight macaroni, without the succulent stringy cheese, will build a tower not unlike that constructed by Chrysler himself. I shall craft this former cuisine into a Babylonian masterpiece reaching to the heavens itself, and Miss Wright shall rightfully crown me, Jeremy, the macaroni King.

The mechanisms of my mind work overtime to ensure the blueprints of my construction shall outmatch any other. The paper plate has curvature to it, providing more of a challenging surface to build upon. As I begin laying the foundation I turn to gaze upon my inferior competitor’s progress.

Of course. 

The swirly pasta. 

Meant to represent the curls in Miss Wright’s hair. 

How could I have been so blind not to take this tasteless boot-licking into account? Of course such a sniveling block snatcher would fall to such low standards. No matter. David will fall. All I must do is create my high-rise building of unmatchable valor, of outstanding architecture, a shining beacon of pre-school society! 

A sound base structure built out of the finest of pasta, perfect for any culinary city. Art deco renovations added to the front entrance, with a perfectly constructed conservatory and awe inspiring awning. Such delights in design that my nemesis could never comprehend as an invaluable piece of a macaroni monolith. He thinks a meager facade of our teacher’s face shall pave his road to the delicious baked foodstuffs I shall be enjoying on my break? I shall have to go all out.

I crush the noodles, mere abstracts of the macaroni sitting before me, and begin sticking them to the top of my already excellently decorated edifice, in a scale pattern, like the Chinese dragons of myth. A perfectly tiled roof that any construction worker or step-father would be proud of-

Has David really begun to color his work with crayon?

That ignoramus! We’re dealing in art not a coloring book, and if he thinks that his now viciously vibrant visage will beat my technique, then he’s wrong. I add extra macaroni, creating luxurious penthouse windows out of strips of pasta, even stooping so low as to use the inferior curled pasta as small trees propped against the base of my newly opened fine establishment. A place perfect for a bakery that will serve cakes that will be nearly as delicious as the one I shall taste after my victory. A palace befitting a Macaroni Monarch. 

“Thirty seconds left!” Miss Wright calls, presumably already understanding who the champion of this child’s play is. My work was unfathomably remarkable, I can already picture it inside the walls of the Smithsonian, the Tate Modern, the Louvre! David’s weak adaptation of our tutor’s features shall forever adorn the fridge of his father’s home, never to see such glory. I add the final details - half a dozen macaroni men that I perch against the sides of the bold blockhouse like the Terracotta Army guarding the once tasty tomb that is my stronghold. I should know, I had tried a few pieces during the project.

It’s perfect!

“And that’s your time, all spent!” Miss Wright cheerfully announces, probably full of glee to see my redoubt stand tall amongst the sea of pasta pets, fettuccini families and ravioli revulsions that don’t prescribe to any form. In comparison to these paltry attempts, it would seem I had a natural gift, a power to create the best macaroni models in the entire known world, or at least from my house to here... Only David and I remain in the spaghetti standoff, that I am sure.

Miss Wright is now standing before us, making her crucial, and final decision.

“Now everyone, close your eyes!”

I clamp my eyelids closed, preparing my wicked grin for my former friend turned arch rival, in smug security after my win. Yet it was taking longer than I was expecting. Was it really that hard to tell the difference in quality between my Em-pasta State Building masterpiece and Tanya’s dreary and dumb dog? Or beg I even suggest the horrendous work of my traitorous nemesis. She couldn’t be falling for David’s sycophancy, could she? No, I must remain calm, have faith that honor and truth will prevail.

“Alright, everyone open!”

I open and I hear cheering. Yes everyone, cheer for your rightful ruler. As I take a bite I hope they can savor the moment as much as me, but I know they can’t. They didn’t win. 

“I made cupcakes for everyone, because you’re all winners!” 

What. 

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach like the Titanic, yet at least that majestic vessel had a legacy. My tower, Jeremy Roberts’ tower, will never come close to holding a flame to her after this pompous and populist display! How dare Miss Wright give everyone the same sweet taste of victory for making hollow displays and sometimes nonsensical contraptions out of their materials, when I had made art. I ate my cupcake, not because I wanted to, but as a show of the great sportsmanship contained in me. I liked chocolate icing more.

David came trotting over to me, mouth full of cupcake and basking in his mediocrity.

“I liked your tower.” Flecks of vanilla sponge spilled from his mouth and assaulted my senses. 

“Of course you did, David. Of course you did.”