11
When Martin got home that evening, the house smelled like a campfire.
“Smarts!” Brian said as Martin entered the kitchen. He wore an apron that saidLick My Fingers.
Martin hesitated. “What’s that smell?”
“I’m making dinner! On the barbecue.”
“You know how to use the barbecue?”
“Come see! You’re going to love it.”
Martin let his brother tow him through the house and out into the small backyard. A plume of black smoke rose from the ancient barbecue, making Brian curse, and a black cloud enveloped him when he lifted the lid. They both coughed as the smoke disappeared, revealing skewers of chicken and mixed vegetables on the grill.
“You made these?” Martin asked in disbelief.
“Well.” Brian poked at them with a pair of tongs. “I bought them. Did you know they’ve got skewers like this all made up at the store?”
Martin eyed them. Despite the smoke, the skewers looked perfectly edible.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?” Brian kept rolling the skewers on the grill, like a street hustler moving his cups around to confuse his audience. Martin wasn’t sure his brother knew what he was doing, but he appreciated the effort, unless—
“Are you selling the house?”
“No!”
“Did you break the oven?”
“Of course not.”
Martin didn’t think Brian actually knew how to work the oven.
“We’ve been living on takeout since I got here. Is this an apology, or do you need to ask me for something?”
“Can’t I make dinner for me and my little brother just because I want to?” Brian continued to shuffle their dinner on the grill. The green peppers were starting to shrivel.
“I think they’re ready.”
“Oh good.” Brian sighed. “I wasn’t sure how you were supposed to tell. There’s no timer on this thing, did you know that?”
They settled themselves at the big kitchen table. Martin tossed them a salad, which Brian grumbled about, but helped himself to once they were sitting.
“Are you dying?” Martin asked.
“Smarts, sometimes I feel like cooking.”
Martin chewed nervously on his surprisingly well-cooked chicken.
“So how’s work going?” Brian asked. “You’re liking it?”
“It’s fine. The store’s not really busy, but the people who come in are nice enough.”
“Yeah? That’s good. That’s really good.”
“Sure.” Martin took another bite of his dinner and wrinkled his nose. The chicken was good, but the onion was a little underdone.
