Excerpt: Girls, boys, and High School {working title}

First intermission: And now, for something completely different: a rabbit in a field
OR
Mr. Baxter and the potatoes

Mr. Baxter was quite happy being a bunny. He knew what he wanted in his life, and he had pretty much achieved it. He wanted a nice hole to live in. He had found a wonderfully satisfactory one in a nice field full of pretty flowers and tasty grass. He wanted a female to share his life with. He definitely had that: Mirabelle, his mate, was small, fluffy, and extremely productive in terms of children. He had already lost count of how many children they had spawned, and he had only been with her for two years. Yes, Mirabelle was a definite success, and, even better, she seemed to think the same of him.
So, Mr. Baxter liked his life as a rabbit. There were not even any hunters in his field, which meant that all of his children could grow up and breed children of their own, thereby furthering the Great Master Secret Plan to take over the world. Mr. Baxter had heard that, somewhere, the rabbits had already succeeded, and he very much looked forward to helping achieve that goal in his own field.
However, there was one thing Mr. Baxter wanted above all else, and that one thing was the one thing he could not have: potatoes. Yes, Mr. Baxter had a secret obsession with the things, and he did not know how to cure it. His parents, both of them, had tried everything they knew back when he was still a youngster, but, contrary to their expectations, his obsession with potatoes had not only remained, it had grown, until all Mr. Baxter could think of was the next time he would be able to sneak one of the delicious roots into his hole and devour it until nothing remained.
Mr. Baxter knew quite well that rabbits were not supposed to like potatoes. Rabbits were supposed to like lettuce and carrots. They were supposed to sneak around and eat the lettuce from the farmer’s fields and steal carrots from the piles ready for winter. They were not supposed to skulk around by the root house in hopes of catching even a glimpse of a potato. Yet Mr. Baxter did just that, and, the more he did it, the worse he felt, and the worse he felt, the more he needed potatoes to make himself feel better. It was a vicious cycle.
He hopped out of his hole one bright afternoon, determined to put an end to this obsession of his once and for all. He could not continue like this. Either he was a rabbit, in which case he would become properly obsessed with carrots and lettuce and producing the next generation, or he was a… well, whatever it was that went around eating potatoes. Mr. Baxter did not know what that could be, but he was fairly certain that he did not want to be one. He would not know how to be anything other than a rabbit, potatoes not withstanding. Something had to be done, and soon.
He headed towards the edge of the field to where Farmer Fred’s field lay. The vegetables were ripe. He would make himself appreciate things other than potatoes!
“George!”
Mr. Baxter turned to see Mirabelle, her eyes bright with curiosity, watching him from their hole.
“Where are you going?” she asked, her ears twitching as she listened with half an ear for predators that might swoop down and steal either her children or her mate from her.
“To the farm,” Mr. Baxter called back. “We’re running low, and it’s the perfect season.” Mirabelle did not know about the potatoes, and Mr. Baxter did not want her to. What if she left because liking potatoes was un-rabbit-like? He would not be able to bear that, he knew. So he kept it a secret from her, and hoped that he could find a solution before she guessed anything.
“Stay safe,” Mirabelle warned. “There are probably dogs around.”
Mr. Baxter’s ears twitched at the mention of the hated creatures, but he hastened to reassure his mate, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’ve out run dogs before. I can do it again.”
She looked relieved, and nodded. “I’ll be waiting for you.” She turned and hopped back into the hole, leaving Mr. Baxter to continue on his way towards Farmer Fred’s field.
The field was fenced in, but Mr. Baxter knew better than to be discouraged. He had gotten into this field before; he could do it again with no problems. He began to look for Mr. Baxter sized holes in the fence. There! He took a deep breath and squeezed through the opening, wriggling slightly as his back legs got stuck momentarily. One more effort… and he was through! His ears waggled in delight as he hopped towards the tidy rows of vegetables. They smelled wonderful, at least. That was a start.
He made his way carefully towards the opposite edge of the garden, knowing as he did so that the only reason he was doing so was to gaze adoringly at the budding potato plants. He knew them all by name, knew how each thrived and grew, and knew how many potatoes they would produce by the end of the season. Last year, he had carefully kept track of everything, planning his attack. Then, he had managed to salvage five whole potatoes, which he had kept hidden away and gradually devoured. They were gone within a month, leaving him feeling both empty and guilty about his extravagance. This year, he would not make the same mistake. This year, he would learn from his experiences and take more. He would be careful, and they would last him all year.
What was he thinking? He was here to avoid potatoes, not to fantasize about them! He looked up, sniffing the air for any hint of a threat. Finding none, he moved cautiously over to the tidy rows of lettuce, throwing one last, longing look back towards the potato plants. No. No more potatoes. Lettuce. Carrots. Those were the things that rabbits ate.
Mr. Baxter took a cautious nibble at one of the leaves of lettuce and considered the taste. Not quite ripe yet, he decided. He checked the color, then moved on to the next head of lettuce, which seemed a tad greener. He took another bite. Yes, this one was definitely ripe. He took another bite, savoring the crisp, cool taste of the leaf. It did not taste the same as a potato, but…
…but nothing. This was what rabbits ate. This was what all the other rabbits Mr. Baxter knew, including Mirabelle, doted on. He would learn to love this! He took another bite.
After he had finished an entire leaf of lettuce, he moved on to the carrots. These were more difficult to judge, as they were underground. Still, Mr. Baxter had not lived this long without being able to tell which carrots were ripe and which carrots were not. Deftly, he unearthed a bright orange vegetable, taking a bite. Yes, just right. He consumed it quickly, dropping the leafy top back to the ground. He nodded as he swallowed: yes, it tasted wonderful. It tasted crunchy and the flavor was exquisite. But, somehow, it was not quite the same.
He sighed. This was not helping. He was here to get rid of this potato obsession, and all he could do was compare all the other foods he tried with potatoes and find that his favorite tubers were better. He was just hopeless.
He looked up at the sky, realizing that it was getting late. He should be heading back to his hole. Mirabelle would be worried, and he would rather she not worry about him. She was so pretty, so soft, so innocent. She knew nothing about the terrors of the world, knew nothing about dogs and hunters and guns except what she had been told by her parents. Not so Mr. Baxter. He had not grown up in the safe field as she had. He had grown up in a different field, one full of hunters and dogs. Both of his parents had died when he was just barely able to survive on his own, and he had felt as quickly as possible, searching long and hard before he found the safety of his new field. He knew what the world was like. He did not want Mirabelle to know the same.
He hopped back to the carrots and unearthed several more, piling them neatly beside him. Then he moved on to the lettuce, carefully biting the leaves off as close to the dirt as he could. His children would be well fed tonight!
He shot one last, longing glance at the row of potatoes. Surely one wouldn’t hurt! He would just take a little one, one that no one would miss. It would only take a moment, after all, and then he could head back to Mirabelle and his children as though nothing had happened. He dropped the lettuce leaves with the carrots and hopped over to the potatoes, lovingly sniffing them to find just the right one.
There! Trembling with excitement, he began to dig feverishly, unearthing the brown marvel within moments. For a long minute, he just sat, holding it and staring at it adoringly. Then, the spell abruptly breaking, he began to devour it, shoving it into his mouth with such ferocity that even he was a little surprised. It had been a long time since his last potato.
Before he knew it, the potato was gone, and he was left empty handed, feeling more empty than before. He had already had one; surely just one more would not hurt anything!

A long time later, he found himself at the end of the row, looking back in horror at the desecration he had reigned among his poor plants. How could he have done such a thing? Many of them had not even been ripe when he had so cruelly devoured them! He had deprived them of the right to live, to prosper, and now they were no more. He covered his eyes with his ears in shame. How was he ever going to live this down?
Hurriedly, he hopped over to his stock of vegetables and picked them up, heading for the Mr. Baxter sized hole he had entered through earlier. Carefully, he shoved his loot through, then began squeezing through himself. He would not come out on the other side! He squeezed harder, ignoring the pain of the fence cutting into his side. He had to get through! Mirabelle would be so worried if he did not come home! And Farmer Fred would find him in the morning and see what he had done to the potatoes! He could not move.
Cautiously, he tried scooting backwards. Yes, that worked. Okay. He took a deep breath and let it all out, then shoved himself as hard as he could forwards through the hole. Nothing. He had eaten too many potatoes. He had gained weight, and now the Mr. Baxter sized hole was too small. Or was it that Mr. Baxter was too big? It did not matter. What mattered was that he was trapped in Farmer Fred’s field and he did not know how to get out.
He wriggled back out of the hole, leaving his vegetables on the other side. Slowly, he managed to get all the way back into the garden. He hopped over to the corner, huddling down in growing terror. It was getting very dark now; Mirabelle would be frantic. Would she think to come look for him? What would she say when she saw what he had done? Would she just leave him and find a proper mate to have proper children with? Mr. Baxter would not be able to blame her if she did, though the very thought of her leaving him was all but devastating.
He drew his ears down over his eyes, curling up even more, pushing against the corner of the field, trying to make himself as small as possible. How long did it take to get thin? He hoped not very long. He did not want to stay here for that long.
He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. He did not succeed very well, but at least he tried.
He woke abruptly, realizing that the world around him was completely black. It was the middle of the night. He could not see anything. He whimpered in terror as the realization hit him.
Suddenly, he froze. Could it be? He poked his ears up, listening. Yes. It was definitely her.
“George?”
His eyes widened and he hopped half a step towards the hole in the fence. “Mirabelle?” he breathed. It could not be… could it?
It was. “George!”
There she was, white fur fluffed up in fear, and eyes wide. She crossed to the hole, then slipped through. She had no trouble. She had not been gorging on potatoes.
“What happened to you?” she asked. Her eyes traveled across his form, then took in the still bleeding scratches. “George…”
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “I didn’t get caught by anything.” Except for his own stupidity, of course.
“Then…”
He looked down in shame. He would have to tell her, he realized. She would want to know, and he loved her too much not to tell her. “It’s… a long story,” he muttered.
She put a paw on his arm. “I want to hear it,” she insisted. “You’ve been gone for hours!”
He sighed and took a deep breath. Before he realized it, the whole sordid story was spilling out, from his babyhood obsession with potatoes to how it had gotten him trapped today. She listened patently until he finished.
“And you were afraid to tell me all this time?” she asked at last.
He nodded, too ashamed to even look at her.
“You idiot,” she said. His head shot up in surprise. “I don’t care! Besides,” she glanced around guiltily. “I have to say that I have a secret passion for corn.” Her eyes veiled over as she considered the vegetable. “It’s so yellow, and so sweet, and…”
Mr. Baxter grinned despite himself, recognizing the same level of obsession. He gently touched her shoulder. “Tell you what,” he suggested. “You help me dig a deeper hole out, and then we come back when the corn is ripe and I’ll help you.”
Her eyes brightened. “You would do that for me?” she breathed.
“I would do anything for you,” he assured her. “Come on.” He led her over to the hole, and they both began digging, rapidly making the hole big enough for both of them to leave at the same time. Mr. Baxter glanced back at Farmer Fred’s field as they left. “Let’s not come back here for a while,” he suggested.
She laughed. “It’s Farmer Jones who has the corn, anyway,” she pointed out.”
He grinned. “So it is.” They picked up his vegetables and headed back to the rabbit hole. And, later that summer, and every summer after that, the two could be found at either Farmer Fred’s or Farmer Jones’, blissfully indulging in their un-rabbit-like food of choice, while the other stood guard and helped them dig their way out of the field.
fin