I had just long enough to think, Oh, we didn’t think about that.
The door swung open, and I launched off the bottom step and flew out into the servants’ dining room.I skidded across the room and spun through another doorway, and the laundry basket tipped over.
So, I was lying there, staring up at the kitchen, the world still spinning, when Bobby’s face came into view.
It took me a few seconds before I could say, “You can have a turn after Keme.”
3
When Keme staggered into the kitchen, I said, “You’re going to be late.”
He made a rude gesture as he struggled into a Quiksilver hoodie.
It was seven a.m., and I was going to die.
But not yet.I had a mission to accomplish.
The problem was Keme’s attendance.His tardies, in particular.Apparently, Keme didn’t always make it to school on time.As in, he never made it to school on time.Which, I thought through my sleep-deprived haze, was reasonable.I mean, what monster had decided that school should start at 7:26 a.m.It was too early.And it was a weird time.And did I mention how early it was?
Keme’s tardies had accumulated to the point that they resulted in afternoon detentions—which Keme skipped.And the skipped afternoon detentions became Saturday detentions—which Keme also skipped.Andthoseskipped detentions culminated in a round of phone calls from the principal of Hastings Rock Public High School.First me.Then Bobby.And then Indira, who had finished her phone call with a grim “We’ll take care of it.”
And take care of it we did.Or, in my case, we were going to die trying.
I stumbled to the coffeemaker, and on the way, I caught a whiff of something.Grabbing Keme’s hoodie—which he was still wriggling into—I yanked it off his head.In answer to his glare, I said, “Not that one.On the chair.”
He stomped over to the clean hoodie I’d set out for him (Rip Curl, and formerly Bobby’s).As he dragged it on, I pitched the dirty hoodie toward the stairs and shambled for the coffeemaker again.The coffee was almost done dripping, so I switched my attention to the toaster.I dropped in two slices of Indira’s homemade bread, set the dial to level five, um, toastiness, and pushed the lever down.
Back to the coffee.
The machine beeped to let me know the nectar of the gods was ready, which was when I realized I’d forgotten a mug.I turned around to hustle over to the cabinet, but Keme was already there.He tossed me a mug.And, by some miracle, I caught it.
I was pouring coffee into the mug when I realized Keme was hacking a continent-sized slab of brownie out of the pan Indira had made the night before.After a sip of life-bringing bean juice—okay, a few sips—I croaked, “Unh-uh.”
Keme scowled at me.
The toast popped up.I grabbed two bananas—Keme liked a lot of banana—the jar of peanut butter, and a knife.“You can take a brownie with your lunch,” I told him.“Not for breakfast.”
Still scowling, Keme opened the fridge and grabbed the lunch box Indira had bought him.It was simple.It was brown.It was butch—if a lunch box could be butch.He was obsessed with it.
“Eat,” I said as I set the plate peanut butter banana toast in front of him.
He took a huge bite and made a gesture at his lunch box.
“Indira already packed you something,” I told him.
He shook his head as he took another bite.
I leaned into the pantry, snagged a single-serving bag of potato chips, and tossed them to him underhand.Indira was not a believer in chips at lunch.Indira was a believer in vegetables.And lots of them.And not smothered in peanut butter or ranch dressing or any of the things that neutralize all those vegetable toxins.So Keme and I had to be vigilant.
Keme caught the chips out of the air, took another savage bite, and made an unhappy gesture.
“If you’re taking a brownie as big as an ice floe,” I told him, “yeah, one bag of chips is enough.”
Outrage painted his face.Another time—like when I wasn’t dying of sleep deprivation—I would have loved it.
I gulped down some more coffee, grabbed the keys to the Pilot, and then said, “Shoot, my hair.”
(I did not say shoot.)
