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“I wasn’t,” she insists. “I was asking your girlfriend if she wants to do something.”
“She’s sick,” he says. “She needs to rest.”
“Whatever,” Jenna mutters, gazing down at her plate.
“I’m up for it,” I say, “as long as I could sit down.”
Jenna perks up. “You could sit on my bed, or I have this cool chair that’s kind of like a bed.”
Easton’s looking at Jenna like he’s trying to figure out why she’s doing this, like she’s up to something. Maybe she’s just bored being stuck at home and desperate for someone to talk to that isn’t her family.
“You don’t have to do this,” Easton says to me.
“She already said she would.” Jenna jumps up from the table and goes around Easton. “Come upstairs when you’re ready.”
“What’d you put in that French toast?” Easton says to his mom.
She laughs a little. “Nothing to make her act that way. She must really like Nova.”
“I think she’s just bored,” I say.
“Or trying to get you to tell her more,” Easton says. “Watch what you say around her. She can’t keep her mouth shut. She’ll tell people whatever you say.”
“If you’re too tired for this or just don’t want to do it,” Penelope says, “I’ll go talk to Jenna. She forgets that not everyone is into clothes the way she is.”
“I don’t mind. And I’m feeling awake right now so I might as well do something.” I get up from the chair. “Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Voss.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiles. “I’m glad you could join us. I just wish you felt better.”
“What are you doing?” Easton asks as I take my plate to the sink.
“Cleaning my plate.”
He comes over to me. “Nova, you don’t have to do that here. We have a dishwasher.”
“Then I’ll put it in the dishwasher. I don’t want your mom having to clean up after me.”
He glances at her, then back at me. “Ready to go upstairs?”
We go up to the second floor and down the hall to a room painted dark blue with shelves holding sports trophies and framed hockey jerseys on the wall.
“This isn’t Jenna’s room.”
Easton laughs. “It’s mine. What do you think?”
“It’s really clean.” I turn to him. “When did you become a neat freak?”
“I’m not. I just don’t like stuff all over the floor.”
“Like my room.”
“Yeah, you’re kind of a slob.”
“Hey!” I say, laughing.
“What? You know you’re a slob. You were that way when we were kids too.”
I walk over to his dresser, noticing the photo on top of it. It’s resting against one of his sports trophies. It’s the photo of me when I was five.
