“It’s delicious,” Kara says. She grabs another piece, a single square, and places it on her tongue, letting the powdered sugar dissolve. “I haven’t had muddy buddies in years.”
I bounce my knees beneath the table. “My family calls it puppy chow.”
Kara holds up one finger, chews, swallows, then finally says, “Call it what you want, so long as you bring it again for Christmas.” She dabs the powdered sugar from her lips with a napkin, leaving behind a small, warm smile. A genuine smile. I have to make the conscious decision not to let my eyes bulge out of my head. Is this ridiculous plan actually working? DoesProfessor Meyers actually like me? Is she inviting me back next month?
“Why don’t we ever make this anymore, Kar Bear?” Otto asks through a mouthful of half-chewed chow. The faintest cloud of powdered sugar puffs off his lips with every plosive.
“I don’t know. I guess I just forgot about it.” Kara smiles at me again and adds, “Thanks for reminding us.”
“Has anyone tried the pie yet?” Carol pipes up, surveying the plates. She’s clearly not used to sharing dessert-related compliments.
“It’s perfect, Aunt Carol,” Ellie assures her. “It’s perfect every year.”
“Have I done a year where I’m thankful for dessert yet?” Otto scans the room in search of the notebook, but quickly gives up and gets back to his plate. “Someone check.”
“I’m sure Marcus has,” Kara says. “You can’t repeat your own, but what’s the rule on repeating someone else’s?”
Ellie mulls it over, then shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s fair. I think it has to be original.”
“I think you need to write down the bylaws,” I mumble, not entirely sure if I’m kidding or not. It gets a laugh from everyone except Ellie, who just rolls her eyes.
“I’m just saying, if no one has repeated someone else’s yet, I don’t think we should start,” Ellie says.
“But I do think we should start the whole rigamarole,” says Otto. “It’s about that time, right?”
The general consensus is yes, it’s about that time, and Kara retrieves a pen and the notebook from where she put it—backin its rightful place in the top drawer of the credenza. When she takes her seat again, it’s as though she’s transformed into an old-timey scribe, ready for her official duties.
“I love that notebook, by the way,” I say, greedy for extra brownie points so long as I’m on a roll.
“Thanks.” Kara smiles at Ellie. “My daughter made it.”
Suddenly, I’m no longer just sucking up. “No way.” I turn toward Ellie, whose cheeks are turning the color of my mom’s Tupperware. “Can I see that?”
Kara hands it off to me, an only slightly nervous look in her eyes. “Careful.”
“Of course.”
Upon further inspection, the notebook doesn’t have a hummingbird cover like I originally thought—it has a black cover with a small hummingbird painting pasted over it. The edges are folded in and taped to the inside cover, next to an inscription: Ellie’s name and the year. This year. “You painted this?”
Ellie just barely nods. “For Mom. For her birthday.”
“It was last week,” Kara says. “She didn’t intend it for the cover of the notebook, but I just thought it fit.”
“Mom loves hummingbirds. She has a feeder in the back.”
“In the summer,” Kara clarifies. “This isn’t their season.”
I trace the delicate edge of the hummingbird’s wing with slow, careful fingers. “This is gorgeous, Ellie.” I look up, meeting her soft blue eyes with a smile. “You’re so talented.”
Kara makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a high note, all behind closed lips. “She better be for what we’re paying for that art degree.”
My chest tightens. This is it. The perfect setup for the grad school conversation. Or it will be, if we can shift back to that positive tone we had moments ago. I clear my throat, nudging a piece of puppy chow across my plate with the side of my fork. “It’s really paying off, actually. Or, uh, from what I’ve seen. Ellie’s learning a lot of…practical uses for her degree. Did you tell them about the conversation you had with your advisor, Ellie?”
Ellie’s throat bobs with a swallow. “Right. I’ve been wanting to talk to you guys about that.”
“About how you’re planning to use your degree? Or about how you’re planning to pay off thoseprivate loans?” The way Kara leans the full weight of her voice into those words—private loans—reminds me of why Kat and I made this whole “community college then state school” plan in the first place. Big Ten schools come with Big Ten price tags.
“Both, actually,” Ellie starts, but her mom doesn’t let her finish.
