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He lets out a yelp anyway, and my nose scrunches up.
Like clockwork, Mom steps out of the bathroom.
Unable to contain my disappointment, my lips fall into a frown.
She’s in the middle of brushing her wavy blonde curls, and it frizzes more and more with every stroke. Her light foundation is caked on, not fully blended in. Her intense red lips part into a smile. “I thought I heard you come down. How are you, honey?”
I sigh. “I’m fine.”
I’d be doing a lot better if Buddy had kept quiet.
The thing about Mom is that she loves to talk. She could literally spend ten minutes talking about her favorite way to cook an egg. Now, while I’m sure that would interest someone, I am not that someone. I am the someone who just wants to eat their pancake in beautiful, uninterrupted silence.
She hands me the hairbrush which I should take as a hint to tackle my own mess of blonde curls, but I toss it onto the couch. It’s been at least two days since I last brushed it. What’s one more? Besides, my curls are tighter than Mom’s. If I brush mine, my hair will completely skip over the frizzy phase and graduate directly into an untamable poofy disaster. Is that what I want on thisgloriousWednesday morning? Definitely not.
I head for the kitchen without giving it another thought.
Mom follows me, of course. Her flowy dress dances around her ankles as she passes me on the way to her oven mitts. She pulls something off the stove and spins around with a pot balanced perfectly in her padded hands. “Look,” she says, beaming. “I made your favorite.”
Diced caramelized apples fill my senses. The gooey goodness is still bubbling from the residual heat of the stove.
I force myself to smile. It’s hard and small, but it’s all I can muster.
As if she's a porcelain doll, Mom stands there frozen, waiting for me to say something more.
My smile dissolves back into a blank stare.
After a moment she breaks free and sets the apples down onto the pot holder sitting next to the stack of pancakes. She grabs the coffee pot and pours herself a cup of unneeded caffeine. “Want any?”
“No. I’ll stick with orange juice.”
She had already put the pot back down before I finished my sentence.
Drinking coffee is a rare occurrence for me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-coffee. I enjoy an occasional caramel flavored burst of energy, but it tends to get in the way of my long midday nap.
“Just a heads up, I asked Caleb to bring your homework today.”
I groan. “Mom.”
She laughs. “You’ll live. Besides, you could use a friend.”
“I have friends,” I mumble, opening the cupboard for a plate.
Even our dishes are a mismatched rainbow, reflecting Mom’s colorful taste. The one on top is lime green. It’s not the most appetizing color to eat off of, but I’m too lazy to switch it for another one.
I set it down in front of the pancakes.
Mom rests her elbows on the counter, wrapping both hands around her coffee mug. “How is Sadie?” Her voice wavers.
My back stiffens. I stab my fork into the first pancake, transferring it to my plate. I go back for another. “I don’t know.” And another. “I haven’t seen her.”
Before I know it, five pancakes stare back at me. They’re sprawled out haphazardly on the plate, overlapping each other. One is hanging off the edge of the plate, threatening to jump ship, but I slide it back to safety just in time.
Mom’s mouth twists in thought. “It’s been three months. I’m sure Ethan wouldn’t want—”
“Ethan is dead. He doesn’t want anything.” The words slip out too fast, and I can’t look at her.
A long, thick silence follows.
