I’m reaching for my hairbrush when my fingertips accidentally knock the lid off my jewelry box. Amid the thin sterling silver chains and delicate rose gold rings lie tiny notes written on Starburst wrappers from middle school that I’d carefully tucked away. All from Alex.
I’ve known Alex Ramos since kindergarten—which is about as long as he’s had a crush on me. Even though he was always lousy at hiding it, it never made things awkward. Our friendship was instantaneous.
Because of alphabetical assigned seating, we sat by each other in almost every class and always got in trouble for talking aboutSupernaturalreruns in the middle of lectures. When we were younger, we’d borrow each other’sA Series of Unfortunate Eventsbooks and e-mail each other about our favorite parts, graduating to texting when we both got phones in seventh grade.
But I don’t want to think of Alex right now. I’m stressed enough as it is.
I close the lid of my jewelry box and let the sound of my blow dryer drown out my thoughts. When I finish, I’m hit with the scents of salty bacon and warm pancakes. If my father thinks he can win me over by cooking me breakfast on my first day of school, he’s mistaken. Besides, pancakes on the first day of school were Grams’s schtick. She would always make mine with chocolate chips, arranging them into the shape of a smiley face.
Thinking about how things were sends pangs of nostalgia through me.
My stomach gurgles with hunger. I went to bed without dinner last night, and now I’m starving. I don’t want to give in to the pancakes, but they smell heavenly.
In the end, my appetite wins. As I walk down the stairs, I hear waves of commotion coming from the kitchen. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ll be at school during the days, so for the most part I won’t have to deal with them.
I round the corner, expecting to see my dad at the stove. But it’s not him flipping flapjacks. It’s Peach.
“I hope you’re hungry!” She says this with enough cheer to fuel a small city. “Your dad’s getting ready for his big day back, too, so I decided to make my famous pancakes.”
“They’re really delightful,” Nonnie adds. She’s sitting at our kitchen table pouring a glass of orange juice. Her hair is free from the rollers, a curly mass that looks like a gray raincloud sitting atop her head. “Almost better than sex.”
Peach nearly drops the spatula. “Nonnie!”
She’s probably worried about corrupting my sweet, innocent ears. I grab a bowl from the cabinet and suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m familiar with the concept.”
“This isn’t exactly the breakfast conversation I wanted to walk into.”
Peach’s face drains of color as my dad joins us in the kitchen. He’s wearing a nice blue button-up and khaki pants. His face is clean-shaven and, if I’m being honest, it’s the healthiest he’s looked in a long time.
I decide to make this as uncomfortable as possible. If I play it up, maybe they’ll leave faster. “Yeah, I know from experience. I hadloadsof sex in Portland.”
Nonnie’s face lights up, clearly amused by this, but Peach looks appalled. My dad takes one look at my deadpan expression and says, “She’s kidding.”
I don’t bother clarifying. Instead, I grab a box of cereal from the pantry. Bran Flakes, gross. But I’m determined not to give in to the niceness of pancakes. I don’t want to enable them to stay any longer than they have to, and I won’t be bribed with delicious breakfast food.
I feel Peach watching me as I pour my cereal. To make up for my behavior, my dad decides to lay it on thick. “Oh man,mmmm. This looks phenomenal.”
Peach grins. She hands my father a stacked plate and passes him the syrup.
I gulp down my cereal like it’s the most delectable meal on this good earth. Nonnie watches me. She’s still wearing her floppy kitten slippers.
“Is it your plumbing that’s backed up?”
I shoot her a confused glance. “What?”
“You know.” She gestures to her stomach. “Constipation?”
I almost choke on my cereal.
“Because Bran Flakes are good for that, you know.”
Oh my god. I have to get out of here.
“Fiber helps,” she adds.
I let my empty bowl clatter in the sink. Like I’d ever take advice from someone who still wears kitten slippers.
My backpack is sitting by my desk upstairs, but when I come back downstairs I notice my keys are missing from the key rack. Weird. That’s where my dad leaves my set for the old Corolla. After he upgraded to the Nissan last year, the Corolla was promised to me once I earned my license. Since I passed my driving test in Portland, I am now legally allowed to come and go as I please.
