After the worst night of sleep I’ve had in a long time, I reach over and cease the annoying buzz of my phone’s alarm clock.
Instantly, memories of last night rush at me like a raging bull and I sit up straight in bed.
I’m nowhere closer to making a decision about Windhaven Academy, and the run-in at the cemetery certainly isn’t helping. It’s been nearly two years since my best friend moved to England for college. While we both promised to talk often, the time difference has pretty much dampened our communication. A deep part of me longs for someone who just…gets me.
Even if they believe in something as ridiculous as ghosts.
I brush my hands over my face, then throw the covers back.
By the time I got back home, my mom was fast asleep, so there was no resolution there. She’s never been the type of parent who would wait up in a dark room, ready to pounce. She values her sleep too much and knows waiting wouldn’t make a difference anyway. If anything, it would mean a big blow-out with no joy at the end. Instead, it would just keep everyone awake and pissed off. I suppose morning makes as good a time as any to pounce.
Dressing as quickly as I can, I throw on a pair of ripped-up skinny jeans, a form-fitting t-shirt that says Be the Change, and my dark-gray Vans. Pulling my thick auburn locks into a haphazard ponytail, I give myself a quick glance in the mirror and rush out the door.
I don’t need to be gobbed in makeup or have my eyebrows drawn on like I’m paying homage to Groucho Marx. Other girls in town have that covered, anyway. I’d rather stand out by being the opposite of all of that insanity.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, I make my way to the kitchen as quietly as possible. As I reach the heart of our home, I’m surprised to find it devoid of the usual activity. Not only is Mom not waiting to dive into a conversation, she isn’t even rushing around trying to make a healthy breakfast before she bolts out the door to her office.
“Mmmkay, this isn’t good,” I say aloud. I walk over to the kitchen window, leaning over far enough to see if her Subaru is still in the driveway.
Its shiny black paint glistens in the early-morning sun and its windows are still fogged over with a hint of frost.
A lightbulb goes off in my head and I spin around, racing to the kitchen cupboards. If Mom’s overslept, she’s going to be freaking about not having a decent breakfast to start the day off right.
Yanking the fridge door open, I grab the eggs, bacon, spinach, garlic, and those weird tiny tomatoes she loves. I chuck them all at the counter and spin around for an avocado and her gluten-free toast.
My eyes flit to the clock on the stove: 7:11 a.m. Plenty of time for me to get this thing rockin’ before I have to bolt out the door, too.
“May as well make some for both of us. Nothing like totally surprising her by eating healthy along with her,” I chuckle, grabbing the whisk and going to town. “She’ll be totally convinced.”
I dice up the garlic and onions the way I’ve seen her do almost every single morning of my teenage years, and throw them into a frying pan of olive oil.
And she thinks I never pay attention to her. Pft.
I turn the burner on high and walk back to the spinach, tomatoes, and avocado. Scratching the back of my head, I realize I have no idea what she does with those. I must have tuned her out at that point as I engaged on Insta.
I cut up the tomatoes into fours and wash the spinach. I assume it’s a salad, right?
Before I realize it, the garlic and onions are smoking and I race back to the stovetop, fanning the noxious odor as the beginnings of the eggs go up in flames.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I jump, pushing the pan to the back burner as if I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to. Staring at her with wide eyes, I’ve drawn a completely blank.
“Were you—were you trying to make breakfast?” she asks, her face a bundle of surprise.
I shrug sheepishly.
“Wow, I expected you’d want a continuation of yesterday’s discussion, not deliver some ass-kissing,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I’ll take it.”
“Yeah, well, I think I screwed up the eggs.” I point to the charred remains.
She nods, a hint of a grin sparkling in her eyes. “They certainly are beyond resuscitation.”
My gaze falls to the floor and I scrunch my face.
Mom sets her briefcase down on the counter and takes the handle of the frying pan and the wooden spoon. “Looks like you just had the oil too high. How about we start over?”
Walking to the small countertop compost bin, she scrapes the contents into it and rinses the pan out in the sink.
“Yeah, okay,” I nod.
“You did a great job with the dicing, though. How about you do that again and I’ll start the toast,” she offers.
I set to work and before we know it, a newly cooked version of the meal is laid out before us. She’s right. I definitely had the oil on too high. The eggs, too, come to think of it.
“Thanks for getting this going. I was planning on swinging through Panera on the way to work,” Mom says, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze.
“Thanks for teaching me how to make eggs without burning the house down,” I grin.
A smile lights up her face, but her eyes glass over. Instead, tears work their way to the surface.
“C’mon Mom,” I say, tipping my head, “don’t do that.”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m—I’m okay,” she whispers. But her voice cracks, betraying its sentiment.
“What’s wrong now? I thought this was a good morning.”
“It was—is.”
“So then, what?”
“It’s just—I’m going to miss you so much,” she says, her lip quivering.
I sit up straighter and lean in. I search her eyes, pleading with my own.
“Mom, I haven’t decided on anything yet.”
Her greenish-hazel eyes, just like the ones I’ve acquired from her, blink slowly as a single tear falls. She swipes at it and shakes her head.
“I wish I could believe that, sweetie. But I know you. I know how stubborn you are. You’re just like your—” her words break off and she holds my gaze for a moment.
“Even if I am like Dad,” I whisper, “I really haven’t decided yet.”
A twinge of guilt punches me in the gut, but I ignore it.
She gives me a knowing look, but nods. “Well, thanks for a nice breakfast, sweetie. I—I gotta get to work,” she says, pushing away from the table.
“Yeah, uh—me, too,” I say, blinking back the surprising spring of emotions.
Each collecting our things, we trod down the front steps, one after the other. Mom heads to her SUV and drives off with a small wave, but I keep walking. I move in a haze past the garden of flowers I’d normally stop and admire and onto the sidewalk. Hiking my purse strap up, I consider heading to the cemetery again to clear my head and relieve some of the guilt I have over trying to make this all about Mom. I should be opening the drug store in the next fifteen minutes, but no one will notice if I’m a couple of minutes late. Most of the locals don’t even stroll in until well past nine, anyway.
“Eh, why not?” I say, walking straight past work with a shrug.