The moment Obesseus saw the fraction, he knew it was a trap.

Professor Math drew it carefully on the board:

½

Josh Jollyrancher stood beside him, arms crossed, lemon water glowing ominously.

“This,” Professor Math said, “is one-half.”

Obesseus raised his hand. He was already holding a sandwich in the other.

“Yes?” Josh said cautiously.

“Is that sandwich number,” Obesseus asked, pointing at the fraction, “supposed to be eaten… like this?”

He lifted his chopsticks.

Professor Math turned pale.

“That’s not a sandwich,” Professor Math said. “That’s a fraction.”

“It got bread on top and bread on bottom,” Obesseus replied. “Number meat in middle. That a sandwich.”

Josh stepped in. “The line is not bread. It’s a division bar.”

“Why it horizontal,” Obesseus demanded, “if not for stacking food.”

Professor Math grabbed another piece of chalk and drew ¾.

“This means three out of four.”

Obesseus nodded slowly. “So someone already ate one?”

“No.”

“Then why missing?”

Josh slammed the desk. “NO ONE ATE THE FRACTION.”

Obesseus frowned and took a bite of his real sandwich.

“Then why this one allowed and number sandwich not.”

Professor Math attempted a demonstration. He drew a circle and shaded half of it.

“This shows half of a whole.”

Obesseus leaned forward. “Where other half go.”

“It still exists,” Professor Math said.

Obesseus gasped. “INVISIBLE FOOD?”

Josh dropped his lemon water.

“Focus,” Josh said. “You don’t eat the numbers.”

“But they stacked,” Obesseus insisted. “And you put line between them. That is plating.”

Professor Math tried another tactic. He pulled out fraction tiles.

“These represent portions.”

Obesseus picked one up, sniffed it, and immediately dipped it into gravy.

Josh screamed.

“That’s a manipulative!”

“It taste like math,” Obesseus said sadly.

The chalkboard began to shake. Equations slid off the walls. The clock split into numerator and denominator and refused to agree on the time.

Professor Math clutched his head. “We should have started with pizza.”

Obesseus perked up. “Pizza fraction understandable.”

Josh collapsed into a chair.

Obesseus stood, holding his sandwich in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

“So just to be clear,” he said, pointing at ½, “I not supposed to eat sandwich number. Even if it looks delicious.”

“Yes,” Professor Math said weakly.

“Even if I brought chopsticks prepared.”

“Yes.”

Obesseus sighed. “Math cruel.”

The classroom doors burst open. Gravy flooded the room. The fractions dissolved into crumbs.

Obesseus escaped triumphantly.

Josh stared at the ruined lesson. Professor Math sat in silence.

Next to the board, someone had written:

Fractions are food-shaped lies.