Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I open the door, I see Mom curled in the corner of the couch with a blanket and a scrapbook open on her lap. She dabs her eye with a tissue as she turns the page.
My heart sinks, and I rush to the stairs, hoping that I can slip away without her noticing.
I don’t even make it to the first step.
“Becca, you’re home.” She sits up and switches to her usual, chipper smile. The only difference is that her makeup is worn off, and her hair is ruffled from resting her head on the couch cushions. “Come tell me about your day.”
I trudge into the living room, crossing my arms. “It was fine.”
Mom pats the couch next to her. “Come sit.”
I want to reject her, to use my massive load of homework as an excuse. Instead, I sit at the far end of the couch, leaving a big gap between us.
Mom’s smile grows bigger. “It’s a little later than normal. Did you go do anything fun?”
Her prying words make me rigid. I hug my backpack close. “Caleb wanted to stop at a music store on the way home.”
“That’s great.” Her exaggerated enthusiasm is so forced. It’s uncomfortable.
“So . . . your cookies. Do you think you could make them today?” My question comes out like nails on a chalkboard. Why is it so hard to ask for something as simple as this?
She makes a sour expression and looks down at her hands. “I just painted my nails because your dad and I are going out to dinner tonight.”
I had almost forgotten that she had talked—or argued—Dad into going to marriage counseling. Dinner was one of the things their counselor suggested they do together.
Her eyes light up as if an idea just popped into her head. “I could give you the recipe and help you get started if you want to make them.”
I didn’t plan on getting covered in flour today, but I promised Jordy cookies. I sigh. “Okay. Let me put my backpack in my room first.”
Mom jumps a little, clapping her hands. “This is going to be so much fun.”
I pat the air. “Calm down. It’s just cookies.”
She twists her mouth in an attempt to tone down her smile, but it pops right back into place. “I’m going to go get the recipe.”
The doorbell rings, distracting Mom. “Who’s that?”
“It’s probably Jordy. I said I would help him with his math, and then we would eat cookies.”
“That was nice of you.” She lifts her blanket and stands. Smoothing out her clothes, she walks to the door. “Sadie,” she says as soon as the door opens. A mix of excitement and remorse coats her greeting. She steps back, opening the way for Sadie to step inside.
My palms start to sweat. There’s nowhere for me to hide. She’s probably already seen me. My thoughts go wild. Why is she here? Is she going to yell at me for avoiding her at school?
Sadie hugs Mom on her way in. Mom staggers back, unprepared, but wraps her arms around Sadie in return. “It’s good to see you.”
Sadie pulls away and stands in the entryway, letting us all take her presence in. It feels so wrong for her to be here, but at the same time, she’s as familiar as the furniture I see in our home every day—a staple of our home.
Half of her red locks are pulled back into a bun on top of her head that bounces when she moves. She has on a form-fitting tank that's tucked into her high-waisted jeans, and Ethan’s green jacket is draped around her shoulders.
She bends down and pats her knees. “Come here, Buddy.”
Buddy trots over, pawing her and licking her face.
“What brings you around?” Mom asks.
Sadie clears her throat. “I need to talk to Becca, if that's okay.”
Mom puts her hands on Sadie’s shoulders and herds her into the living room. “Of course that’s okay. You’re always welcome here.” She guides her to the couch, next to me.
My heart is pounding so hard it’s like thunder in my ears.
When she sits, the couch sighs and the old cushions form around her.
“I’ll be in the office if you need anything,” Mom says. She knows I don’t want to be alone with Sadie, and that’s the exact reason she leaves.
I glare as she wanders away.
The silence between Sadie and me is awkward. In the past, conversation between us was always easy. Now, even small talk is heavy and forced.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” she whispers, staring at the easy chair across the room.
“I’m not,” I say, which is a complete lie.
“Right . . .” She turns to me with her wide blue-outlined eyes. “Look, we don’t have to go back to being friends or anything, but I need to graduate. And I can’t do that without you.”
I haven’t relaxed, and my emotions are twisting and turning in my stomach. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my lunch down.
“All I need is a math tutor, and you’re the best,” she says.
I’m frozen, unsure whether I’m still breathing. My brain is a maze filled with possible responses, but none of them can fix us. “I didn’t mean—”
She stands. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” She bends to pet Buddy one more time. “Just show up tomorrow after school.”
I’m still processing before I realize she’s halfway out of the door.
As soon as it latches, I jump up, making a beeline straight for the bathroom. I’m unable to subside the violent storm in my stomach any longer.
Mom’s elbows are propped on the island counter. In her hand is an old index card. The edges are bent, and it has a stain on the back, muddying the handwriting in that spot.
She sets it down and straightens her posture. “It’s been years since we baked anything together.”
She’s right. Baking, or any type of cooking for that matter, is not my strong suit. Every time I see images of mouth-watering meals and try to make them, they come out looking haphazard and usually at least a little burnt—nothing like the picture.
“Well, I promised Jordy,” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
Mom opens the fridge with a delicate touch to avoid ruining her nails. Her fingers are all sprawled out. “That’s sweet of you.” She pulls out the carton of eggs that was on the top shelf and sets them down next to the recipe card. “Could you grab the flour and both sugars please?”
I do as ordered, plopping the ingredients down in a line. Our one-pound sack of flour sags, leaning against the container of brown sugar.
Mom runs her finger down the index card. “Okay, now can you get the baking powder and baking soda? Oh, and the salt. I’ll get the butter.”
While rummaging through the cabinet searching for those ingredients, the doorbell rings.
“Never mind. Could you answer the door? I’m still trying to find the butter. I know it’s in here somewhere.” She’s gently moving things around our packed refrigerator.
The doorbell rings again, and this time Buddy’s ears perk up. He’s been lying on his dog bed in the living room, and he races in front of me, headed for the door with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
I open the door, revealing Jordy with a notebook clutched close. He’s bundled up in a big overcoat, which seems a little excessive for walking next door.
“Hi,” he says. His expression is completely serious.
I laugh softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you ready to study?”
He nods. “I guess, but just so you know, I mainly came for the cookies.”
“What’s the notebook for?” I ask.
“For the recipe. You said it was the best.” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t plan on gatekeeping it, do you?”
I shake my head with a laugh. “Nope.” A chill runs up my arms from the cold air seeping into our house. I step aside. “Come in.”
“Good idea. I was starting to think you’d never ask,” he says, strolling into our entryway. He holds the notebook out to me.
I take it, keeping it safe.
Buddy jumps up next to Jordy.
“Hey, puppy,” Jordy says, giving him a big hug. He sits down on the floor and pets Buddy’s fur.
“I didn’t know you liked dogs,” I say.
Jordy smiles big enough to reveal his missing front teeth. “I love them, but our mom is allergic.”
“Well, you can come visit Buddy any time you want.”
“Really?”
Buddy’s tongue attacks Jordy’s face, and Jordy squeals, bouncing back. He wipes the saliva off his face with his sleeve.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, scooting back to Buddy. This time, he tilts his head away, already preparing for another ambush. “I think he likes me.”
I’ve never seen Jordy this relaxed before. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him smile like this either. It’s refreshing.
“I think you’re right.”
He tries to mask his grin, but he can’t seem to turn down the corners of his mouth.
I start to pass him. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready. We can start the cookies and go over your math while they’re cooking.”
Mom found the butter and added a couple more ingredients to our pile on the counter. Now, she’s pulling a big yellow mixing bowl out of our deep black hole of a drawer.
The color is almost bright enough to compete with the curtains.
“Hi, Mrs. Jacobs,” Jordy says, rushing up behind me. He straightens his clothes and resorts back to his neutral expression. “I came for the cookies.”
She places the mixing bowl on the counter. “It’s good to see you. Go wash your hands, and you can do the mixing.”
He puts his notebook on the counter and runs over to the sink, rolling up his sleeves. He squirts the soap into his palm and rubs his hands together until suds cover them.
“So, you must love cookies,” Mom says, handing Jordy a towel to dry his hands.
“Everyone loves cookies,” I say.
Jordy shakes his head. “That’s not true. Caleb doesn’t. He never eats more than one bite.”
“I knew he couldn’t be perfect,” I say.
Jordy narrows his eyes, scrunching his eyebrows together. “I could’ve told you that.”
“Oh really?”
“Not liking cookies is just the beginning. He hangs his towel up crooked after he takes showers. He leaves his things all over the house. And he never remembers to lock the car. I don’t know why you agreed to go on a date with him.”
Mom gasps.
My eyes grow big. “Jordy!”
He cups a hand over his mouth, muffling his apology.
Mom spins me around by the shoulders, smiling from ear to ear. “You’re dating Caleb?” She pinches my cheek. “Since when did my baby girl grow up?”