Read Online This Is How I Find Her by Sara Polsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Polsky
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and coconut. âSo whenever youâre readyâ¦â
I plug the mixer in and stretch the cord back across the counter to the bowl. Leila reaches over with the cup of chocolate chips. I switch the mixer on and stick it in the bowlâand cookie dough flies everywhere . The counter, our clothes, the floor, our hair.
We both shriek and jump back. Leila curses, I try to hold the mixer in the bowl and find the off switch while also keeping my pajamas away from the airborne flour-sugar-egg mixture, and somewhere in there the doorbell rings. For a minute thereâs a rhythm, the bellâs ding-dong , ding-dong combined with the whir of the mixer.
Then, at once, everything is quiet. Dough is crumbling off the ends of my hair and I still have my arm stretched over the bowl, holding the turned-off mixer and trying to contain the damage. A drop of dough with a chocolate chip in it falls from Leilaâs sleeve onto the counter and her shoulders slump. Iâve just ruined her recipe.
I want to pick up the bowl and chuck all of the dough into the trash. How can Leila calmly and neatly bake a batch of cookies while I, even though I cook meals at home almost every day, canât manage a simple mixer?
But Leila isnât angry. I hear a soft sound coming from her, and when I look over, I realize sheâs actually laughing . So hard her shoulders are shaking and she can barely catch her breath.
âYou have toâ¦tilt the bowlâ¦to keep everything from flying around,â she manages to say, bossy again.
Without warning, she picks a glob of dough off her shirt and flings it at me, hard, right at my nose. I duck, but it still hits the top of my head, adding to the sticky mess in my hair.
Iâm holding some dough myself, about to pelt it back at her, when Uncle John walks into the kitchen, followed by James, his hair falling over his face.
âLook who I found at the front door,â Uncle John announces. Then he sees the mess.
Behind him, Jamesâs eyes meet mine, and then they travel over my dough-covered hair and pajamas. James grins and raises an eyebrow, and I feel myself start to turn red. I drop the handful of cookie dough I was about to toss at Leila back into the mixing bowl. James follows my arms to the bowl and his eyes light up, a mischievous look I recognize even though the face thatâs making it is five years older.
Leila and I, knowing whatâs coming next, reach for the bowl at the same time. She gets to it first and hugs it toward her, heedless of the flour and sugar lining its edge.
âNo,â she tells James forcefully, still clutching the bowl and walking sideways with it toward the sink. He reaches over the counter for it, she holds it away, and both of them start laughing.
James catches my eyes over Leilaâs head, and I smile, thinking that this feels almost the way it used to.
But then Uncle John interrupts. âWe can head out whenever youâre ready, Sophie,â he says, and his words pull me away from the scene in the kitchen. They zoom me out of the room and up, up, until Iâm back in the guest room by myself, no longer in on the joke.
Twelve
As we drive to his office one town over, Uncle John talks about the projects heâll be meeting with clients about today. Every so often, he interrupts himself to point out houses his firm worked on. Some are still under construction, wooden frames up where new rooms will go. I try to pay attention, to imagine the houses those frames will become, but the carâs motion lulls me, and soon my mind starts to wander.
My mother loves to drive around and look at houses. Her favorite is one about forty-five minutes away from our town, out in a more rural part of New Jersey near farms and apple orchards. But it isnât a farmhouse. Itâs more modern than all the other homes, all glass and pale wood, towering over the nearby trees.
Sometimes sheâd drive us out there in our rattling green
I plug the mixer in and stretch the cord back across the counter to the bowl. Leila reaches over with the cup of chocolate chips. I switch the mixer on and stick it in the bowlâand cookie dough flies everywhere . The counter, our clothes, the floor, our hair.
We both shriek and jump back. Leila curses, I try to hold the mixer in the bowl and find the off switch while also keeping my pajamas away from the airborne flour-sugar-egg mixture, and somewhere in there the doorbell rings. For a minute thereâs a rhythm, the bellâs ding-dong , ding-dong combined with the whir of the mixer.
Then, at once, everything is quiet. Dough is crumbling off the ends of my hair and I still have my arm stretched over the bowl, holding the turned-off mixer and trying to contain the damage. A drop of dough with a chocolate chip in it falls from Leilaâs sleeve onto the counter and her shoulders slump. Iâve just ruined her recipe.
I want to pick up the bowl and chuck all of the dough into the trash. How can Leila calmly and neatly bake a batch of cookies while I, even though I cook meals at home almost every day, canât manage a simple mixer?
But Leila isnât angry. I hear a soft sound coming from her, and when I look over, I realize sheâs actually laughing . So hard her shoulders are shaking and she can barely catch her breath.
âYou have toâ¦tilt the bowlâ¦to keep everything from flying around,â she manages to say, bossy again.
Without warning, she picks a glob of dough off her shirt and flings it at me, hard, right at my nose. I duck, but it still hits the top of my head, adding to the sticky mess in my hair.
Iâm holding some dough myself, about to pelt it back at her, when Uncle John walks into the kitchen, followed by James, his hair falling over his face.
âLook who I found at the front door,â Uncle John announces. Then he sees the mess.
Behind him, Jamesâs eyes meet mine, and then they travel over my dough-covered hair and pajamas. James grins and raises an eyebrow, and I feel myself start to turn red. I drop the handful of cookie dough I was about to toss at Leila back into the mixing bowl. James follows my arms to the bowl and his eyes light up, a mischievous look I recognize even though the face thatâs making it is five years older.
Leila and I, knowing whatâs coming next, reach for the bowl at the same time. She gets to it first and hugs it toward her, heedless of the flour and sugar lining its edge.
âNo,â she tells James forcefully, still clutching the bowl and walking sideways with it toward the sink. He reaches over the counter for it, she holds it away, and both of them start laughing.
James catches my eyes over Leilaâs head, and I smile, thinking that this feels almost the way it used to.
But then Uncle John interrupts. âWe can head out whenever youâre ready, Sophie,â he says, and his words pull me away from the scene in the kitchen. They zoom me out of the room and up, up, until Iâm back in the guest room by myself, no longer in on the joke.
Twelve
As we drive to his office one town over, Uncle John talks about the projects heâll be meeting with clients about today. Every so often, he interrupts himself to point out houses his firm worked on. Some are still under construction, wooden frames up where new rooms will go. I try to pay attention, to imagine the houses those frames will become, but the carâs motion lulls me, and soon my mind starts to wander.
My mother loves to drive around and look at houses. Her favorite is one about forty-five minutes away from our town, out in a more rural part of New Jersey near farms and apple orchards. But it isnât a farmhouse. Itâs more modern than all the other homes, all glass and pale wood, towering over the nearby trees.
Sometimes sheâd drive us out there in our rattling green
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