4. Halle
CHAPTER 4
HALLE
T he box-made brownies hardly seem like the kind of neighborly thing Thelma will expect, but I hold on to them tightly as we cross the street anyway. She’d probably rather have an organ donation or a blood offering, but Betty Crocker brownies are all she’s getting.
“Not sure this is a good idea,” Casen mutters from my left.
On my right, Quinn adds, “Thelma gives ‘I might murder you and bury you under my floors’ vibes.”
Teeth gritted, I look from one brother to the other.
“We’ll be fine. She’s like ninety pounds. We could take her.” I step to the side at the closed gate at the front of their yard, and Quinn swings it open.
He exchanges a look with his twin, and they give one another identical nods.
At least that’s settled.
Caleb’s car is gone again. Or still. It was gone early this morning. Not that it matters. I never asked what he did for work, but I feel guilty to have taken up so much of his time yesterday if he had to leave so early this morning. Especially since today has clearly been a long day out of the house for him.
The porch steps don’t creak or groan as we go up. There’s even a nice doorbell.
I peer over my shoulder and assess our run-down new home. It’s a work in progress . You’ll get it all fixed eventually.
It might take ten years, but eventually the raggedy house across the street will be my pride and joy.
I ring the doorbell and hold my breath. After the encounter earlier today in the grocery store, I’m not sure what to expect.
In a matter of seconds, the door swings open, revealing Thelma. “You’re on time. I’m impressed.”
She steps aside, allowing us to enter. The house is in better shape than mine, but it’s a bit outdated. The living room to my left has pink carpet.
“I made these for dessert.” I hold up the pan I’m still clutching tightly.
Lips pursed, she eyes it. “Brownies?”
“Yes?” For reasons unknown, it comes out as a question .
“Hmm.” She takes the pan and shuffles down the hall. “Homemade?”
“I mean… I made it myself.” I follow, assuming that’s the right thing to do in this situation, the boys right behind me.
She comes to an abrupt stop, and I pull up short too. Poor Casen nearly trips on the rug but manages to catch himself.
“Out of a box, then, huh?”
I sigh. “Yes, it was Betty Crocker, if you must know.”
Someone rescue me from this nightmare.
She harrumphs. “This way.”
As we enter the kitchen, I have to admit that dinner does smell delicious.
In the kitchen, another woman sets a pair of oven mitts on the counter next to the range, and with a kind smile, smooths her hands down her apron. This must be Cynthia. “I hope this one isn’t bothering you too much?” She tosses a thumb at Thelma. “She likes to mess with people.”
Laughing, Thelma sets the pan of brownies on the counter. “Life’s too boring not to.” She grips my arm gently. “I hope I didn’t annoy you too much.”
I blink at her, head spinning. “I… huh?”
She goes on, undeterred by my general confusion. “There’s no denying I’m nosy, but I’m not mean. Bossy? Yes. Otherwise, how would I have gotten you over here to have dinner with us? You’re skin and bones, dear, but when we’re done with you, you’ll have some meat on you.”
Again, I’m at a loss for words. “Oh. Okay.”
It’s perhaps the lamest thing that could’ve left my mouth. In the past, I might’ve smarted back and told her how ridiculous she sounds, but frankly, I’m too exhausted to care. It’s my natural state these days. I’ve been weary for over a decade now, the curse of having to grow up too soon and too fast.
Cynthia motions toward the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. “Go sit. This will just be a few more minutes.”
I shoo the boys over to the table, but then turn back. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like any help?”
“No, dear.” She smiles, her eyes brimming with infinite kindness. It reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher. The woman who noticed I never brought a lunch and that my lunch account never had a balance. Who made sure I had something to eat every day. She always acted as if she’d packed too much. Back then, I took her actions at face value, secretly thrilled that this woman had such a bad habit of overpacking. It wasn’t until years later that I realized what an unexpectedly kind gesture it was. I wasn’t her kid or her problem, but she saw me. She saw beneath the facade I hid behind. The quiet girl who did her best not to be noticed. And when she looked at me, her eyes shone in the same way Cynthia’s do now. Not with pity, but with care.
“Is it just me, or are these old ladies weird?” Quinn hisses under his breath as I sit across from him.
“Shush,” I scold, giving him a light kick under the table.
I wouldn’t put it past Thelma to have some kind of supersonic hearing.
After a minute or two, Cynthia appears with a loaf pan. Thelma is behind her with a bowl of salad and dressing .
“Can I help bring things to the table?” I ask, already halfway out of the chair.
“No,” Cynthia says in a slightly scolding tone. “Stay where you are.”
The two of them quickly head back into the kitchen.
Casen whimpers. “I think we’ve been kidnapped.”
“Do you think they have a basement full of dead bodies?” Quinn adds.
I want to bang my head against the table, but I refrain. “Hush,” I snap.
I’m tired, and the last thing I want to do is have to wrangle my brothers while also working on the motives of these women. I already hate this fucking town.
Cynthia and Thelma return, one carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes, the other with a tray of fresh rolls.
Okay, I may be questioning their sanity, but the dinner smells delicious. I will be gorging myself. Who knows when we’ll have a meal like this again.
Even the boys exchange a look, eyes gleaming. It breaks my heart that I can’t give them meals like this. Food is a luxury, regardless of what those who’ve never gone hungry say.
I scan the table, my mouth watering. “This looks incredible.”
“Smells great too,” Casen pipes in.
Quinn is too busy gazing at the spread with hearts in his eyes to say anything.
“Well, go on then. Dig in.”
The words have barely left Thelma’s mouth when the boys are piling their plates high. She and Cynthia both watch, eyes wide in a mixture of fascination and terror.
“Hey, leave some for the rest of us.” I try to keep my tone light, teasing, but it’s a scolding, nonetheless. Any second, I expect our neighbors to change their minds about us and escort my brothers out of their house for acting like wild animals.
They slow, shooting sheepish looks around the table.
“Don’t worry,” Cynthia says with a nurturing smile aimed in my direction. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Once the boys have taken more than their fair share, the ladies nod for me to fill my plate. I’d much prefer they take the lead, but I do as I’m silently instructed, taking a small helping of each.
“Oh, honey, take more than that,” Cynthia says, sympathy in her gaze.
“Are you sure?”
Thelma snorts. “We’re positive.”
I pile a little more onto my plate. I long ago got used to surviving without much food. On the rare occasions where we did have more than normal, I was reprimanded for being gluttonous if I took what my mother deemed as too much. I learned at an early age that it was better to eat less.
When the ladies ask the boys about whether they’re excited for school to start in a month, Quinn shrugs, shoveling a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “I guess.”
Casen’s response isn’t nearly as tempered. “School sucks. ”
I sigh, which triggers both ladies to look my way.
They go on asking question after question, curious about what I do and how I could possibly do it from home.
The dinner is delicious, but I find myself having trouble finishing my plate. I’m too busy fidgeting and trying to figure out the motivation behind all of their questions. And at the end of the night, despite my protests, Cynthia and Thelma send us home with all of the leftovers.
“Those old ladies might be weird,” Casen says as I unlock the front door. “But they sure know how to cook.”
He’s not wrong.
As the boys file into the house, I peer over my shoulder, not at all surprised to see a set of eyes peering through the blinds across the street. I lift my hand, and they fall back into place.