Mallory’s eyes widen and she jumps back. “Oh—” She bites her lip to stop herself from saying whatever word crossed her mind. She turns to Mrs. Meyers. “I’ll be back.”
She races out the door, and I’m chasing after her again. She runs out of the house and right through our yards, not bothering to go around the grass. She barges through the door and doesn’t skid to a stop until she’s in the kitchen.
A burning smell fills the room and smoke billows out of the pot. There’s a white residue covering the entire pot and a good portion of the oven door from where the water boiled over.
Mallory makes a sound crossed between a hiccup and a gasp, but she doesn’t say anything. She leaps into action, turning off the stove. She grabs the handle of the pot with an oven mitt and puts it in the sink under running water.
Then she leans on the sink with her face in her hands. “I don’t have time for this,” she mumbles.
My heart sinks to the floor. All I wanted to do was prove to her I could be helpful, that I’m not the same Emma who ruins everything, but maybe I haven’t changed as much as I thought. I’m still the same screwup.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, desperate for a way to make it up to her.
But before she has a chance to say anything, the fire alarm goes off above our heads.
I grab a kitchen towel and wave it in the air below the alarm, trying to get the smoke away from the sensor.
When Mallory turns, her eyes are watery, but she doesn’t stop moving. She walks to the pantry and grabs the stool. She sets it underneath the alarm, climbs up, and takes it off the wall.
The beeping stops, but her lip wobbles more as she sets it on the counter.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“I’m sorry.”
Here we are again. It’s our timeless story. No matter how hard I try, I’m the careless little sister who never gets anything right, and Mallory is the one who has to fix it.
She sniffles and wipes her eyes on her sleeve, taking a deep breath. “I’ll put the fire alarm back up when I get home. Just try and clean this up before Dad gets here. We can order pizza.” She doesn’t look at me as she sets the stool back in the pantry.
“Mallory, I’m sorry,” I say.
But I don’t think it matters.
11
MYLES
I walk in the front door, slipping off my shoes and set them on the rack next to my mom’s sandals, trying to ignore Adam’s bright purple tennis shoes right below them.
He’s so different from us. From Mom.
Our once white and beige house has been taken over by trinkets and splashes of color everywhere I look. It’s not my home anymore.
Sweet and tangy barbecue filters into our house through the open slider leading to the back patio. Adam is at the grill while Mom sets the table.
I know I should be happy to see them smiling and laughing, but it only reminds me of the way things used to be when Dad was around. He loved to grill dinner outside, and seeing Adam there feels like we’ve replaced him.
My legs are heavy as I saunter closer.
“Hi, baby,” Mom says, kissing my forehead as soon as I’m in reach. “How was your day?”
It was horrible, but I know better than to make her worry. “Not bad.”
She scowls, intently focusing on my face. “Is that a bruise?”
I turn away. “It’s nothing. I fell.”
