When Colton pulls up to the 7-Eleven parking lot, I get out and shut the door. Before he drives off, he rolls down his window and sticks his head out. His light-brown hair is tangled from his elaborate thrashing.
“You sure you don’t want a ride home?” His fingers drum on the body of the car. “I can wait.”
Offering is beyond chivalrous for Colton, who doesn’t think twice about calling girlsdudeand publicly refers to his man-part as the Socket Rocket. But I know he wants to get straight to his band practice where he can re-create the same thrashing music that I had the pleasure of listening to on our short drive.
I wave him off. “Nah, this is perfect.”
“Oh, hey.” Colton leans over on his arm. “Our first show is coming up in October. You should come. I’ll text you the details.”
“Yeah, okay,” I hear myself say, my mind still processing everything that happened today. More specifically, Whitney and Jay. Jay-and-Whitney. Jitney?
My stomach roils.
I give him a small wave. “Thanks again.”
Colton nods, then blasts his music before driving away.
I’m only a five-minute walk from home, so it’s not a big deal. I know it’s pitiful to honor the Slurpee tradition by myself, but I’m in a mopey mood and don’t feel like going straight to my house. I still feel the blow from the Jay and Whitney news. It was wrong of me to neglect my friends, but isn’t going out with your friend’s ex wrong, too?
I wander down the cool aisles of 7-Eleven. I have to be okay with this. Everyone else already is. If I’m not, I won’t look like a good friend—and I already earned that label when I didn’t keep in touch with them in Portland.
I reach for the waxy, plastic cup and watch the dispenser distribute my red slush. I pay, then step out into the sticky afternoon and make my way home.
When I open the front door, I’m greeted by a warm, garlicky scent. It has to be my dad’s homemade marinara sauce. I would always beg him to make it for me when I was little, and he’d tell me that if I ate too much I’d start growing noodles out of my nose. The nostalgia catches me off guard.
Loud laughter erupts from the kitchen, immediately bringing me back to reality. I consider which would be less painful: walking into my kitchen that’s full of weird strangers my dad has brought home or rubbing chopped onions into my eyeballs.
“Is that you, Goose?” my father calls.
My shining opportunity to sneak unannounced upstairs is gone. I set my bags by the front door and head into the kitchen.
As expected, my father is leaning over an enormous pot of bubbling tomato sauce. Peach is beside him slicing a loaf of French bread. Her hair is pulled back in a giant clip and she’s wearing a floral apron. And heels. I don’t know a single person who could possibly be comfortable cooking in heels.
It’s strange seeing so many people in Grams’s kitchen. I used to find her in here after school cooking dinner. I’d start to tell her about my day, but instead of letting me stand there talking to her she’d put me to work chopping up whatever vegetable she needed.
“Hope you’re hungry!” my dad says once I’m in sight. “Dinner will be ready in the next hour or so.”
I wonder if I can fake cramps and avoid dinner altogether.
Nonnie is sitting on one of our barstools, transfixed by my dad’s laptop screen as she watches some video on YouTube. Her navy blouse has neon-green cheetahs printed all over in an eccentric pattern. It’s clear she has an obsession with multicolored safari animals. At least she’s ditched the cat slippers.
“How was your day?” Peach asks, smiling. She’s still wearing that too-bright magenta lipstick.
“Fine.” Although I really want to just say,Why do you even care?
Nonnie swivels around on her barstool to face me. “What is that?”
I follow her gaze and look down at my Slurpee cup. “I stopped by 7-Eleven after school.”
She frowns. “All that sugar in your teeth will have you looking like a jack-o’-lantern.”
It’s a joke, but it feels like an accusation. I make a huge gesture of slurping down the last bit of liquid at the bottom before throwing it in the trash.
Nonnie plays another video, and immediately I hear music starting up. From over her shoulder, I see she’s watching one of Queen’s live performances. As if I didn’t hear enough of it this morning. When Freddie Mercury takes the stage, Nonnie claps and hollers as if he can hear her. I wonder if anyone’s told her that the internet doesn’t work that way.
“Peach is teaching me how to make her basil marinara sauce,” my dad says. “She’s a chef.”
“Oh, stop.” Peach swats him with the dishcloth in her hands. She turns to face me. “I’m not. I’m just a big foodie.”
