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MARLOW
“I WISH WAFFLES COULD HAVE spent the morning with us.” Lola sighs, glancing at my house as we pass by it on our way to school. “He looks so sad.”
Waffles is standing in my art studio with his nose pressed against the window, gazing down at us. I can almost hear him whining from here.
“Does Kendra have a pet?” I ask.
“Yeah, her cat, Mr. Whiskers.” Lola giggles at the mention of his name. “She showed me lots of pictures.”
“Did she ever bring Mr. Whiskers with her to your house?”
Lola shakes her head. “Daddy doesn’t allow pets in the house.”
“Do you think he would have been happy if I brought Waffles over when he asked me not to?”
“No, he’d be mad.”
“Exactly.”
The last time Waffles was in Dylan’s house, he was uninvited, resulting in a big mess, and I’d prefer to avoid a similar situation in the future. Dylan’s already upset at me for giving Lola cereal for breakfast, and the last thing I need is another strike against me.
It took me a solid hour to read what I’m affectionately calling “The Manual.” I did take a snack break and nodded off on the couch twice. In my defense, Dylan’s sofa was exceptionally comfortable, and my reading material was more boring than a calculus textbook.
Did I mention the pages were single-spaced, and there weren’t even any pictures? I deserve a reward for making it through the whole thing. Thank goodness I had a pack of markers in my bag, so I could highlight the important sections that I may want to reference later.
Once I finished my required reading, I explored while waiting for Lola to wake up, since I didn’t have much of a chance to look around the first time I was there.
I discovered that Dylan’s house is a utopia for organizational enthusiasts. A white monochromatic palette with gray accent pieces dominates the main floor. I assume he hired an interior decorator because the place has zero personality. Aside from Lola’s pictures neatly hung on the fridge, there isn’t any indication that a kid lives there.
The kitchen is impeccable—there’s not a single junk drawer. Every drawer has a liner and dividers to keep everything in its proper place. The large pantry, with meticulously organized shelves filled with labeled containers, bins, and baskets, belongs in a home décor magazine. I couldn’t help but notice almost every item was labeled as organic, and the snack choices were exclusively healthy options. There isn’t a single Cheez-It or Pop-Tart in the place, which is a travesty.
The living room is just as impeccable. A massive media center with custom doors conceals the TV, and books arranged by size and color fill the gray bookshelf in the corner. It’s worth noting that the white furniture doesn’t have a single stain in sight—trust me, I checked.
When I went into Lola’s room to wake her, I was relieved that it looked like a rainbow bomb had gone off. Her pink bedding is covered in unicorns, rainbows, and clouds. A hammock filled to the brim with colorful stuffed animals occupies one corner, and a massive shaggy rug is next to the bed. The one thing missing was color on the walls. I’m already plotting ways to convince Dylan to let me paint them.
Thankfully, we were out of the house by 8:08 a.m., or Dylan might have lost it.
When Lola and I get to the elementary school, I notice the other parents and staff are staring. I keep a low profile, but Aspen Grove is a small town, which means even the slightest deviation from the norm attracts attention. It’s easy to predict the inevitable gossip circulating after everyone sees me dropping Lola off at school.
I disregard the curious glances as I follow Lola to the brick building’s front entrance. When we reach the top step, she turns around to face me.
“Could you drop me off here?” she begs.
I hesitate for a moment, remembering the specific paragraph in The Manual—that I highlighted in purple—about having to escort Lola to her classroom.
“Your dad asked me to walk you to class, but I’m willing to compromise,” I say.
She scrunches her nose in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“Compromise is when two people want different things and agree to meet in the middle. Make sense?”
“No.” She scratches her head.
I drum my fingers against my mouth as I think of a better way to explain.
“Your dad asked me to walk you to your classroom, but you’d rather I drop you off here.” I motion around us. “A compromise would be if I go inside the building but let you walk to your classroom alone. That way, I can watch you get there safely from a distance.”
“Oh… okay.” She smiles. “Can we do that?”
