stork.”
I nearly spit my coffee all over the clean counter. Jaelle had not just said
stork,
because that would be graveyard spooky.
Jaelle laughed. “I forget sometimes how young you are. It’s probably not appropriate for me to discuss with you.”
“I just took too big a sip.” My eyes grew to the size of beach balls. I could feel them inflating. “That’s great news, right?”
“Could be.”
“But that’s what you want. You said so.”
“I just don’t want to get burned again.”
“Have you tested yet?” I asked.
“No. Too chicken. Last three times were false alarms and I got my hopes up so high, I kinda crashed with the news. And I think I took Russ down with me. This time I’m not peeing on the stick until I’m all but certain.”
I drank my coffee, ordered Afi a chicken potpie to go, and sat tapping my toes while Jaelle bagged up his dinner. As Jaelle bent down to the stash of napkins under the counter, I noticed something above her head again. Like last time, I thought it was a bug, but when I looked closer I saw squiggly little pulsations, like the air was corking. Holy cow. It hit me like a dropped piano. For real. I heard the splinter of wood and the jangle of scattering keys. This was a sign.
Jaelle
was
a potential vessel
. I sat back in shock, wondering if she smelled like shaved willow bark or mulled mugwort, or how she’d look in chartreuse. She’d look great, of course. The girl had perfect skin and mad style.
Jaelle must have noticed me staring. “Is something wrong with my hair again?” She patted down her bangs.
“Actually, Jaelle, I was just thinking how nice you look today.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Jaelle said with a smile.
I pulled into the driveway. Darn it. Stanley’s car was there. I’d hoped he’d been called away at the last minute to some emergency Star Trek convention or abducted for a Geek Squad intervention.
They were in the kitchen. My mom was arranging cheese slices on a tray, while an aproned — good God, the guy had no dignity — Stanley stirred something on the stove. He was a redhead, flaming at that, with bits of gray fuzz coiling his sideburns. My dad’s hair was nut brown and sleek. And Stanley was slim and on the short side, five-ten tops. My dad was six-two and toned. What did she see in him?
“Oh, good. You’re home,” my mom said.
I sat down at the kitchen island and watched her flit about like a hummingbird — slicing bread to go with the cheese, pouring wine for her and Stanley, tossing a salad, and brushing up close to him every chance she got. She was dressed up, too. Dressed up for her, anyway. She wore a wrap-front blue sweater and pleated print skirt, which suited her curvy figure. Her giddiness was irritating. As was her flirtatiousness. I could tell she was trying to bring it down a notch, for my sake, but she couldn’t. She honestly couldn’t. And Stanley was no better. At one point in this little pre-dinner show, he squeezed her butt as she pushed past him. They didn’t think I saw, but I did. Yuck. Appetite gone.
Though we sat in the formal dining room with the good china and cloth napkins, it felt more like a torture chamber. The stroganoff Stanley had made was like wood chips covered with gull guano. The only way to get out of eating it was to feign interest, meal-diverting rapture, in his conversation. It wasn’t easy. Stanley taught environmental studies. Hardly titillating stuff. His area of interest was climate change and greenhouse gases.
Woo-hoo
. I pushed what may have been a mushroom, though it looked suspiciously like the ear of some small varmint, across my plate.
“Tell Kat about the ice packs,” my mom said.
“Did you know,” Stanley said, waving his fork like a pointer, “that billions of tons of methane gas lie trapped below the permafrost, the byproduct of decaying ancient Arctic plant life?”
“Trapped gas?” I asked. “Like flatulence?”
He laughed, a deep throaty
I nearly spit my coffee all over the clean counter. Jaelle had not just said
stork,
because that would be graveyard spooky.
Jaelle laughed. “I forget sometimes how young you are. It’s probably not appropriate for me to discuss with you.”
“I just took too big a sip.” My eyes grew to the size of beach balls. I could feel them inflating. “That’s great news, right?”
“Could be.”
“But that’s what you want. You said so.”
“I just don’t want to get burned again.”
“Have you tested yet?” I asked.
“No. Too chicken. Last three times were false alarms and I got my hopes up so high, I kinda crashed with the news. And I think I took Russ down with me. This time I’m not peeing on the stick until I’m all but certain.”
I drank my coffee, ordered Afi a chicken potpie to go, and sat tapping my toes while Jaelle bagged up his dinner. As Jaelle bent down to the stash of napkins under the counter, I noticed something above her head again. Like last time, I thought it was a bug, but when I looked closer I saw squiggly little pulsations, like the air was corking. Holy cow. It hit me like a dropped piano. For real. I heard the splinter of wood and the jangle of scattering keys. This was a sign.
Jaelle
was
a potential vessel
. I sat back in shock, wondering if she smelled like shaved willow bark or mulled mugwort, or how she’d look in chartreuse. She’d look great, of course. The girl had perfect skin and mad style.
Jaelle must have noticed me staring. “Is something wrong with my hair again?” She patted down her bangs.
“Actually, Jaelle, I was just thinking how nice you look today.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Jaelle said with a smile.
I pulled into the driveway. Darn it. Stanley’s car was there. I’d hoped he’d been called away at the last minute to some emergency Star Trek convention or abducted for a Geek Squad intervention.
They were in the kitchen. My mom was arranging cheese slices on a tray, while an aproned — good God, the guy had no dignity — Stanley stirred something on the stove. He was a redhead, flaming at that, with bits of gray fuzz coiling his sideburns. My dad’s hair was nut brown and sleek. And Stanley was slim and on the short side, five-ten tops. My dad was six-two and toned. What did she see in him?
“Oh, good. You’re home,” my mom said.
I sat down at the kitchen island and watched her flit about like a hummingbird — slicing bread to go with the cheese, pouring wine for her and Stanley, tossing a salad, and brushing up close to him every chance she got. She was dressed up, too. Dressed up for her, anyway. She wore a wrap-front blue sweater and pleated print skirt, which suited her curvy figure. Her giddiness was irritating. As was her flirtatiousness. I could tell she was trying to bring it down a notch, for my sake, but she couldn’t. She honestly couldn’t. And Stanley was no better. At one point in this little pre-dinner show, he squeezed her butt as she pushed past him. They didn’t think I saw, but I did. Yuck. Appetite gone.
Though we sat in the formal dining room with the good china and cloth napkins, it felt more like a torture chamber. The stroganoff Stanley had made was like wood chips covered with gull guano. The only way to get out of eating it was to feign interest, meal-diverting rapture, in his conversation. It wasn’t easy. Stanley taught environmental studies. Hardly titillating stuff. His area of interest was climate change and greenhouse gases.
Woo-hoo
. I pushed what may have been a mushroom, though it looked suspiciously like the ear of some small varmint, across my plate.
“Tell Kat about the ice packs,” my mom said.
“Did you know,” Stanley said, waving his fork like a pointer, “that billions of tons of methane gas lie trapped below the permafrost, the byproduct of decaying ancient Arctic plant life?”
“Trapped gas?” I asked. “Like flatulence?”
He laughed, a deep throaty
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