For real, that was Lennie’s fault. He ate grilled cheese like other people ate snacks and put so much butter in the pan, his bread came out soggy. The first time he had to make grilled cheese without butter he learned, though. They always did. Their mother didn’t play when it came to them sharing chef duties.
Mo didn’t see how her brothers ever got away with the things they did. To her, their mother was not to be messed with. She wasn’t a big woman and though her hands were super soft from constantly washing, sanitizing, and moisturizing during her late shift at the hospital—those hands could backhand you quick and hard if you called yourself smart mouthing. At least that’s the mother her and Lennie knew. So, if their mother said do something, they always did.
“I buy the food; y’all cook it. Unless you don’t want to eat,” was Linda Jenkins’s favorite phrase, the second anybody complained. If Mo and Lennie hadn’t learned to cook, they would have been some starving somebodies.
Mo expertly drained the beef’s slippery juices into the empty spaghetti sauce jar, making sure not to drip any into the sink. When she first learned to cook, and by learn she meant teaching herself, she dumped everything down the sink. Didn’t it just wash away?
Apparently not. The sink clogged and no matter how much Lennie plunged it, the water wouldn’t drain. The maintenance people ended up pulling a nasty glob that looked like dragon snot out of the pipe. The dude had complained that people didn’t know how to take care of anything. Mo had stood by quietly, unwilling to admit she had regularly poured burger and bacon grease down the drain. What did she know? She was only ten. Now she knew better.
As she mixed the sauce into the beef, she pulled herself up into relevé onto her toes and then slowly rolled down. Ms. Noelle said it was important to build up the strength in her feet. She did it anytime she was standing still and barely knew she was doing it until Lennie burst into the kitchen.
Based on the number of girls always sliding into his DMs, her brother wasn’t a bad-looking dude. To Mo, he was a little too skinny with a bird chest. Why he never wore a shirt, Mo didn’t know. And his pants never sat on his waist, but that’s what happened when you never bothered to pull the pants up. Little twists dotted his head like coily worms reaching for the sun trying to grow into full locs. Like Mo’s, his skin was the color of almonds, brown with a tiny hint of red, and his eyes were slender ovals, a little too far apart.
His voice boomed unnecessarily loud, “What you doing?”
She pretended he hadn’t startled her. “Toe lifts.”
He stood behind her, trying to slip a spoon into the sauce. “Ioun even wanna know what that means.”
Her elbow connected, softly, with his gut. “Get away. It’s almost done.” When he took a second too long to step back she lifted her arm ready to crack him good, but he stepped back in time. She called out, “Ma, dinner ready.”
“’Bout time,” Lennie said, but without his usual frustration. Let him tell it, Mo always took too long to get food on the table when it was her turn to cook. He groused as he brought plates out and put them on the table. “So now I gotta cook dinner every night myself while you gone?”
“I mean, unless you think I’m gonna come back from Philly every night,” Mo said, hand on her hip. She dumped the boiling water and noodles into a colander. “You only cooking for yourself. Mommy only home to eat two nights anyway.”
Their mother floated into the room, refreshed after her shower. About five-foot-five, she and her two children were height triplets. Her almond-colored skin was a richer brown than theirs, but there was no mistaking them as family. It was almost as if, by the sheer power of keeping her two youngest at home out of trouble, she, Mo, and Lennie looked more alike.
In place of her work scrubs, she wore a pair of cotton cheer shorts and a T-shirt with Sam-Well Trojans across it, a relic from the days of one of Mo’s older brothers who played basketball once upon a time. She pecked Mo, then Lennie, on the cheek and took her seat at the table. It was a given that they’d serve her. She worked twelve-hour shifts, and on the few nights she was home, dinner as a family was mandatory. Mo didn’t mind. Her and Lennie were home alone a lot. She loved the few days her mother was around.
“What’s this about I’m only home two nights,” she asked, sitting with one foot folded beneath her.
Mo twirled spaghetti onto the plates, trying to be fancy like on the food channels, then drowned the mini-mounds in beef sauce. She put a plate in front of her mother, then filled her and Lennie’s plates as she explained. “Lennie was complaining about having to cook while I’m gone.”
“I wasn’t complaining.” He wiped the scowl off his face at his mother’s raised eyebrow and softened his tone. “Just saying, why I still gotta cook while Mo gone?”
“Grace on your own,” their mother said. She bowed her head, lips moving silently. Mo and Lennie did the same. She waited until everyone’s head lifted before continuing. “So, wait, just because your sister not here you not trying cook for me?”
Mo cosigned, “Ain’t that something, Mommy?”
Their laughter went on too long, irritating Lennie. “I ain’t say that,” he mumbled.
“I think you just mad because you’ll miss your baby sister,” their mother said, spinning her fork until it bulged with spaghetti. Her smile was sly.
Lennie’s eyebrows went up then down like he wasn’t sure whether to be mad or sad. They stayed raised. “Ain’t nobody gonna miss her. She only be gone for three weeks anyway.”
Spaghetti wiggled as their mother stabbed her full fork his way. “Exactly. You get to cook for me all of, like, six times. I carried you nine months. Let’s see.” She pretended to think before nodding. “We almost be even.”
Lennie chomped on his food. A noodle hung out of his mouth as he talked. “All right, Ma, dang.” He shoveled his fork under his spaghetti, determined to get as much on it as possible. “That mean Mo gotta cook extra when she get back, right?”
Mo’s mouth tightened. “How does that make sense, though?”
“’Cause I’m pulling your slack, yo,” Lennie said, before inhaling another forkful. Full mouth and all, he pleaded with his mother. It came out as, “Mah, she gah mae up for beingone, righ?”
Their mother shook her head in disapproval. “Stop talking with your mouth full. But, no, she doesn’t need to make up for being gone. When she gets back, y’all split the work like you always do.”
Lennie’s fork clattered softly against his plate, enough to show dismay, not enough to make their mother go off on him. “You haven’t even left for this fancy camp and already things changing.” He argued, “That’s not right, Ma. Why can’t I get a vacation, too?”
“I make a bet with you. Soon as you learn ballet, I’ll send you too, hear?” Their mother’s small frame shook as she laughed. She grew serious. Her fork hung, foodless, suspended in the air as she spoke in what Mo considered her work voice—firm but caring, like they were patients she was giving medical orders to. “Be happy for your sister. It’s exciting that Ms. N think she’s good enough to go away to dance.”