“In a good way or a bad way?” she says, her head tilting curiously.
Ah. That’s the question, isn’t it?
And though I’m not going to admit it to the nosy women in my family, I think it’s safe to say both.Juniper drives me crazy in the bad wayandin the good way.
She’s obnoxious; pushy and invasive and snarky. But there have also been a couple times when arguing with her was the highlight of my day, filling me with an almost euphoric amusement—or when I’ve found myself wondering if kissing her would get her to shut up.
We bicker like cats and dogs, in other words, but there’s also a strong undercurrent of mutual attraction.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally. Then I sigh. I really don’t feel like answering all these questions. “Tell you what, Mom,” I add. “If I start a relationship with someone, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?”
“Aiden doesn’t like women because they’re pretty,” Caroline says—as if she hasn’t contributed to this mess enough already. “He isn’t really attracted to them physically until he’s attracted to them mentally—ow!” She breaks off, rubbing the back of her head.
“I barely touched you,” I mutter as I squeeze past her, heading out of the kitchen. “But mind your own business.” How does she even know that about me? Sisters aren’t supposed to know thatkind of thing.
I dart out of the way, smirking as I avoid Caroline’s retaliatory swat by mere inches. Then I book it to the family room, where there’s more noise but fewer questions. My dad and Jeff are planted firmly on the sofa, their eyes glued to my parents’ television, where some football game is playing.
“Girls,” I say to the twins, who are now chasing each other around the dining room table and shrieking with laughter. “Do you need to wash your hands before dinner?”
“Yes,” Jeff calls without tearing his eyes from the screen. “Hadley, Myra,?* wash your hands, girls.”
They divert course almost seamlessly, two little four-year-old rockets shooting toward the bathroom, hands and faces sticky from sneaking candy. I smile slightly as they zoom past.
They’re loud, but they’re cute. If I ever have kids someday, I hope they’re as cute as the twins.
To give myself something useful to do, I set the table. My parents aren’t overly formal, but they aren’t like Juniper and I, either, who use plastic plates from Target. The plates I set out are glazed ceramic, the cups glass. A few minutes later my mom and Caroline emerge from the kitchen, carrying what looks like roast beef, mashed potatoes, and a large bowl of salad. The smell of food is what seems to pry my dad and Jeff away from the TV; they mute it, and within thirty seconds everyone is seated. I scowl at the mashed potatoes, remembering the food fight in the cafeteria. At least my mom’s food is better than any school lunch.
As my eyes trail over the table, though, an uncomfortable twinge of…somethingplucks at my heart. I eye the mashed potatoes, covered in gravy; the roast beef, surrounded by carrots and onions; the salad, tossed with cheese,tomatoes, and croutons. I take the table in, and then I realize: it has always looked this way.
When I was a kid, and even still today, I have always been able to sit at a table that’s loaded with food. We could afford it, yes, but I was also raised by parents who took the time to cook for us. Hunger, especially as a child, has many different sources, but two of them are the lack of money to buy food and the lack of an adult figure to prepare that food.
I grew up with both.
I’m rounding the table before I even realize my feet are moving. And when I reach my mother, enveloping her in a huge hug, my arms are folding her into my embrace before I even give them consent to do so.
“Thank you,” I say into her fluffy hair. She smells like dish soap and lavender potpourri.
“Oh, my,” she says, sounding flustered. She seems surprised enough by this sudden display of affection that she doesn’t know how to respond, but a moment later her arms wrap around me, returning my hug. “For what?”
How do I even begin to explain? How do I tell her that I’ve been feeling irritable about my high school students throwing food around, and yet I didn’t even think to thank the woman who made sure I was always fed and clothed and happy? How do I tell her I’m slowly learning that it’s okay to feel grateful rather than guilty that I grew up with so much?
“Just—the meal,” I say, my voice halting. “It looks good.”
She chuckles, the sound muffled by my shoulder. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now sit down, let’s eat. The food is getting cold.”
I get a few strange looks as I sit back down—mostly from my dad and Caroline—but no one says anything, and I’m grateful. Then, for a few minutes, dinner goes the way dinners always do: the women talk and the men eat.My dad, Jeff, and I are all more on the quiet side, probably because we’ve got Caroline and my mom to contend with. They chatter back and forth while the three of us stuff our faces, acting like we’ve never eaten anything good in our lives before this meal. What can I say, though? My mom’s cooking is fantastic.
I’m just standing up to refill my water glass when the doorbell rings. I look at my parents, who in turn are looking at each other.
“Is someone else coming?” my dad says with a frown.
“No,” my mom says, and she’s frowning too.
“Yes,” Caroline says.
We all turn to her.
“It’s Juniper,” she says in answer to our unspoken question. Then she smiles at me. “She needs to borrow some of the clothes I keep in my old bedroom closet.”
