Page 5 of Jacob Michaels is Not Here

“You’ve made your choice.” The figure responded.

“Will it hurt?”

“Oh, you will have your pain, Robert.” It responded. “There will be plenty of pain. All you have to do is wait. But this…will just sting a little bit.”

Then everything went black.

Oma was in the kitchen like she always was, preparing another breakfast, humming a tune to herself, cupboards suddenly slamming shut and shadows shifting as I gamboled into the room. Bacon and biscuits and sausage gravy perfumed the air—the signature scent of Oma’s house in the morning. Too hungry to entertain propriety, I plopped down into one of the kitchen chairs, prepared to eat. I was hungry. I was always hungry.

“What have I told you about flingin’ your ass into my kitchen chairs?” Oma turned around, the large kitchen spoon in her hand was coated with gravy.

It made my mouth water.

“I’m sorry, Oma.” I blushed. “Your cooking just always smells so good.”

“I guess I can take that as an apology.”

She cackled and turned back to the stove. Oma had rules in her house and a strict sense of what was and wasn’t proper behavior. While she was quick to correct breaking the rules or displaying improper behavior, she was just as ready to laugh and forgive. Oma wasn’t one to ever genuinely hold a grudge against anyone. Besides the Kelly family. As far as I knew, she’d never actually punished me for anything. Of course, Oma had a way with her looks and her words that let one know you would never want to suffer one of her punishments. So…I was a pretty good kid.

“Now,” Oma said, the metal spoon scratching against the cast iron skillet, “what have you been up to the last few days?”

Summer sun was streaming through the window, making everything look soft and lazy and warm.

“Nothing.” I shrugged.

“Nothin’.” She snorted. “Nothin’ my wrinkled ass, Robbie.”

“Oma…”

She waggled her head. “Rob.”

“Thank you.” My pubescent voice cracked.

“I’ll never get used to calling you that.” She turned to me, putting her fists against her hips. “You’re not a ‘Rob.’ You’re too damn sweet to go by ‘Rob.’ I’m just goin’ to call you ‘Robbie’ and you can hate me if you want.”

She gave me a wink and turned back to the stove. Since Oma’s back was turned and she couldn’t see it, I let myself smile.

“You’ve been stayin’ away from the house from sun up to sun down the last few days.” Oma teased over her shoulder. “To me, that spells out that you’re sweet on some girl.”

I shrugged, though Oma couldn’t see it, as I sat at the table.

“You just gon’ be quiet about it?” Oma chuckled to herself. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a fifteen-year-old boy catchin’ sweet on a girl. All y’all go through it. Bunch of hormonal idiots just waiting for a chance to smooch…and do other things…with some willing girl.”

My cheeks were red, and I was staring down at the table. Oma talking to me about the birds and the bees—such as it was—was bad enough. The fact that I didn’t have a thing for any of the girls at school was another. Oma turned to me, her eyes locking onto mine.

“You’re going to be a heartbreaker, Robbie,” She sighed. “I mean, hell…just look atcha. Now that you’re growing into yourself. You make sure you’re bein’ a gentleman until they tell you it’s okay to act otherwise. Don’t you let me hear a single word about you treatin’ a girl wrong.”

“You won’t, Oma,” I mumbled.

“Good.”

She turned back to the stove.

“I don’t have any crushes on any girls anyway.” I found myself practically whispering.

“Well, that’s okay, too.” Oma nodded to herself. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ a late bloomer. Keep you out of trouble as long as we can.”

Oma laughed. I didn’t.