Mary Jane, Jessica Blau [diy ebook reader TXT] 📗

“Oh, are you making eggs in a nest?” Mrs. Cone clapped her hands together.

“BIRDS in a nest!” Izzy said.

My mother leaned over the pan. “You put too much butter in.”

“This is how Izzy likes it.” I flipped a nest over.

“We love Mary Jane’s meals so much,” Mrs. Cone said.

My mother’s mouth pulled up into a forced smile. “She still has a lot to learn.” I saw her look around at the kitchen, thedishes in the sink, the books on the table, the jade Buddha on the windowsill, the unswept floor.

My father stepped into the kitchen with Dr. Cone. “Okay, Mary Jane. Let’s go now.” His voice was firm and fast.

“Let me just put out the food.” I went to the cupboard and took down four plates. My mother’s head bopped back just an inchas she watched. For her, letting a fourteen-year-old take over a kitchen was like handing over the controls of a flying jetto a random passenger.

I passed the plates to Izzy, who placed them on the table.

Dr. Cone put his hand on my father’s shoulder. “Are you sure you can’t join us for lunch?”

“I have something planned,” my mother said. “It would be such a shame to waste the food.”

I nervously re-salted what Izzy had already salted. My heart ticktocked like a timer.

“Syrup?” Izzy asked.

“Fridge door,” I said.

With the red oven mitt that I kept tucked behind the toaster, I lifted the frying pan and walked it to the table. Everyonewatched as I slid a bird in a nest onto each of the plates.

“It’s much easier, dear, if you bring the plates to the pan,” my mother said.

“Mary Jane, aren’t you going to eat with us?” Izzy hugged my legs.

“I’m sorry.” I put the empty pan on the burner and then picked up Izzy and buried my face in her neck. The urge to cry welledup from my chest to my throat like a wave about to crash. But I swallowed it away and held it down.

I kissed Izzy on the cheek and then took her to the banquette and set her in front of a plate. There was no silverware, soI quickly went to the silverware drawer. I held it open for a moment, admiring how clean it was. Just last week, Izzy andI had removed the silverware tray and emptied the cutlery. Both the tray and the drawer that held it were filled with crumbs,jam smears, unidentifiable seeds, and even dead bugs. I wanted to point out how clean the drawer was to my mother. It wassomething she might appreciate.

“We need to get going, dear.” My mother crossed her arms and stared me down.

Quickly, I pulled out the knives and forks and laid them on the table. I leaned into Izzy’s ear and whispered, “I promiseI’ll be back, but it might not be until school starts again.” Izzy looked at me, her eyes huge and wet. I kissed her quicklybefore I could feel her feelings and double them, and then I followed my parents out of the kichen.

Dr. and Mrs. Cone walked us to the entrance hall. No one spoke until Dr. Cone opened the front door.

“This humidity can kill a golf game,” my father said.

“I’m sure it does,” Dr. Cone said. “I can take it about fifteen degrees hotter than this when there’s no humidity.”

“Do you golf too?” Mrs. Cone asked my mother.

“I prefer tennis.”

“She’s a doubles gal,” my father said. “Singles in this heat will ruin her hairdo.”

My mother smiled and then patted her stiff hair. “Well, thank you so much for having us in.”

“It would be lovely if Mary Jane could come back till the end of summer,” Dr. Cone said.

“What a shame she can’t,” my mom said, and smiled real big and stiff, like she was posing for a picture she didn’t want taken.

I stared toward the steps, hoping to see Jimmy or Sheba bounding down. It seemed impossible that I’d walk out that door andsimply never see them again.

“Goodbye now,” my father said, and then I was on the sidewalk once more, between my parents, moving toward our house. I turnedmy head back several times, hoping that someone from the Cone house, even Dr. Cone himself, might run out and beg me to return.But no one did.

My mother unlocked the front door, and then the three of us stepped into the sterile chill of the air-conditioning. My father immediately went to his chair.

“Set the table for lunch,” my mother said.

I followed her into the kitchen. She took a pot out of the refrigerator and placed it on the stove. “Chicken noodle soup.”

I took down three bowls and placed them on the kitchen table. Then I opened the silverware drawer. I had to admire the shiny,organized cleanliness. The spoons were nested, hugging one another. The knives were lined up like canned sardines. And theforks were stacked atop one another in two neat piles. I looked over at my mother, slowly stirring the soup, her mouth ina downward melt. Before I could think it through, I put my hand into the forks and disrupted the piling. Then I did the samewith the knives. The spoons seemed to cling to each other, like sleeping kittens. I flipped half of them upside down, andthen removed three.

As if to cover my tracks, I paused by the stove. “That looks great.” When my mother didn’t reply, I asked, “Did you like theCones? What did you think of Sheba?”

My mother put the stirring spoon on a ceramic holder the shape of a giant spoon and went to the refrigerator. “That entirecrew certainly admires you.” She removed from the fridge a bag of Wonder Bread, butter in the glass butter dish, and a stackof individually cellophane-wrapped slices of Kraft cheese.

“Do you want me to make the cheese sandwiches?”

“You use too much butter.” She put everything on the counter and then went to the silverware drawer and pulled it open. Myheart dropped down to my stomach like a boot into a pond.

My mother stared at the disarray