Read Online Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcy Beller Paul
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andgamesI’vewon.ButI’mhere,aren’tI?Andhe’snot.Idon’tknowwhymymomcan’tjustacceptit andgetonwithherlife.
Aftercarryingsomedishestothesink,Iduckintothebathroomandslipmyphoneoutofmyjeans.
Still nothing from Hudson. I suck it up and send him a text. I write something simple. Short. Casual. It takesmesolongtocomeupwiththatperfecttone,myparentshavecompletelyclearedthetablebythe timeI’mfinished.Ireadoverthemessageasmyphoneattemptstosendit:
SooverThanksgiving.Brainstormingcovertmissionstomakeitthroughdessert.You?
It’sokay.Notgreat,butnotterrible,either.
Mymomcallsmetohelpinthekitchenbeforethemessagesends.
Bythetimewesetthetablefordessertit’slate—wewaitedanextrahourforJake,who—surprise, surprise—didn’tshowup.We’retired,andthehushedroaroffootballistheonlynoiseinthehouse.This is when Kris usually walks in, telling some crazy Thanksgiving tale, like the time her cousins wrestled eachotherintothekitchenandknockedthecranberrysauceontothedog.Andfromthenonit’salljokes and stories and laughing so hard our ice cream dribbles off our spoons and onto our chins. But tonight she’snothere,either.
AndsomehowmymomwassobusycookingandmydadwassobusysnoringinfrontoftheTVthat
theydidn’tevenrealizeIsatinmyroomallday,draftingmyownversionofthemissingsheetfromthe 1901map.ThatIneverwentovertoKris’splace.ThatIneverwentanywhere.Soaftermymomlaysout the cookies, the fruit platter, the pumpkin pie, and two kinds of ice cream, she looks over to the fourth plate,thenshelooksatme.AndIknowwhatshe’sgoingtosay.
“Where’sKris?”sheasks,restingherhandonthebackofthedining-roomchair.Sinceshedoesn’tsit, neitherdowe.Allthreeofusstandaroundatablefullofdessertsandsofteningicecream.
“Oh,she’snotcoming,”Isay.“Thatpiereallylooksdelicious,Mom.Whatflavoristheicecream?”
“Thanks,honey.IboughtVanillaBeanforyou.She’snotcoming?”
“Nope.”
“Didyoutwohaveafight?”
“Nope.”Technically,that’strue.Nofight.Nonothing.I’mjustaterriblefriend.Itapmyfingersonthe backofthechair.“Canwesitdown?”
“Of course we can,” my father says. “Diane, come on. Sit. You’ve been on your feet all day. What havewegothere,VanillaBeanandSwissAlmond?Myfavorite,”hesays,scoopinghisownspoonright intotheSwissAlmondpint.“Mmmmm.”Hescrapesthefloorwithhischair,thensortoffallsdownintoit andserveshimselfahugebowloficecream.Nowthathe’sdown,Isittoo,eventhoughmymom’sstill standing,lookingmyway.
“Yousureyou’reokay?”mymomsays,pullingathernecklace.“Nothingyouwanttotalkabout?”
“Nope.Canyoupassthefruit?”
“Sure,”shesays.Butshedoesn’tpassit.ShewalksaroundthetabletowhereI’msittingandstops behind me, setting a hand on my shoulder. Then she places the bowl next to my plate. I dig out the strawberriesandblueberrieswiththehugeservingspoon.She’sstillstandingbehindmewhenwehearan engineandseetwobeamsoflightswipeacrossthedarkbackyard.Jake.Heactuallymadeit.
Theweightliftsfrommyshoulder,andmymombeginsflittingaroundthekitchenlikeaflytogethim aplate,aglass,anapkin.Bythetimethedoorcracks,she’sgotherarmoutstretchedandhercheekinthe airforakiss.Jakeshakesoffthecoldandshuckshisblackovercoat,layingitoverMom’sarmasDad claps him solidly on the back. While he passes out kisses and apologies, I check my phone under the table.Ihaveafailmessage.ThetexttoHudsonneverwentthrough.Iresendit,butitfailsagain.SoItry hisoldemailaddress.Itbouncesback.Whatthehell?
“What’s wrong with you?” Jake’s at the table now. His stubbled cheek is rosy from the cold and roundedoverabiteofpie.“DidyougetweirdwhileIwasgone?”Hepointshiscrumb-coveredforkat me.
“I’mnotweird.”Ilaymyphoneinmylapandpushthefruitaroundonmyplate.CouldHudsonhave changedhisnumber?TheoneIusedisfromlastyear.
“Well,you’renotactingnormal,”hesays.JakeisfiveyearsolderthanIam.Normalusedtobefixing my Shake ‘N Bake oven and building me pillow forts. Then he started high school, and it switched to
Aftercarryingsomedishestothesink,Iduckintothebathroomandslipmyphoneoutofmyjeans.
Still nothing from Hudson. I suck it up and send him a text. I write something simple. Short. Casual. It takesmesolongtocomeupwiththatperfecttone,myparentshavecompletelyclearedthetablebythe timeI’mfinished.Ireadoverthemessageasmyphoneattemptstosendit:
SooverThanksgiving.Brainstormingcovertmissionstomakeitthroughdessert.You?
It’sokay.Notgreat,butnotterrible,either.
Mymomcallsmetohelpinthekitchenbeforethemessagesends.
Bythetimewesetthetablefordessertit’slate—wewaitedanextrahourforJake,who—surprise, surprise—didn’tshowup.We’retired,andthehushedroaroffootballistheonlynoiseinthehouse.This is when Kris usually walks in, telling some crazy Thanksgiving tale, like the time her cousins wrestled eachotherintothekitchenandknockedthecranberrysauceontothedog.Andfromthenonit’salljokes and stories and laughing so hard our ice cream dribbles off our spoons and onto our chins. But tonight she’snothere,either.
AndsomehowmymomwassobusycookingandmydadwassobusysnoringinfrontoftheTVthat
theydidn’tevenrealizeIsatinmyroomallday,draftingmyownversionofthemissingsheetfromthe 1901map.ThatIneverwentovertoKris’splace.ThatIneverwentanywhere.Soaftermymomlaysout the cookies, the fruit platter, the pumpkin pie, and two kinds of ice cream, she looks over to the fourth plate,thenshelooksatme.AndIknowwhatshe’sgoingtosay.
“Where’sKris?”sheasks,restingherhandonthebackofthedining-roomchair.Sinceshedoesn’tsit, neitherdowe.Allthreeofusstandaroundatablefullofdessertsandsofteningicecream.
“Oh,she’snotcoming,”Isay.“Thatpiereallylooksdelicious,Mom.Whatflavoristheicecream?”
“Thanks,honey.IboughtVanillaBeanforyou.She’snotcoming?”
“Nope.”
“Didyoutwohaveafight?”
“Nope.”Technically,that’strue.Nofight.Nonothing.I’mjustaterriblefriend.Itapmyfingersonthe backofthechair.“Canwesitdown?”
“Of course we can,” my father says. “Diane, come on. Sit. You’ve been on your feet all day. What havewegothere,VanillaBeanandSwissAlmond?Myfavorite,”hesays,scoopinghisownspoonright intotheSwissAlmondpint.“Mmmmm.”Hescrapesthefloorwithhischair,thensortoffallsdownintoit andserveshimselfahugebowloficecream.Nowthathe’sdown,Isittoo,eventhoughmymom’sstill standing,lookingmyway.
“Yousureyou’reokay?”mymomsays,pullingathernecklace.“Nothingyouwanttotalkabout?”
“Nope.Canyoupassthefruit?”
“Sure,”shesays.Butshedoesn’tpassit.ShewalksaroundthetabletowhereI’msittingandstops behind me, setting a hand on my shoulder. Then she places the bowl next to my plate. I dig out the strawberriesandblueberrieswiththehugeservingspoon.She’sstillstandingbehindmewhenwehearan engineandseetwobeamsoflightswipeacrossthedarkbackyard.Jake.Heactuallymadeit.
Theweightliftsfrommyshoulder,andmymombeginsflittingaroundthekitchenlikeaflytogethim aplate,aglass,anapkin.Bythetimethedoorcracks,she’sgotherarmoutstretchedandhercheekinthe airforakiss.Jakeshakesoffthecoldandshuckshisblackovercoat,layingitoverMom’sarmasDad claps him solidly on the back. While he passes out kisses and apologies, I check my phone under the table.Ihaveafailmessage.ThetexttoHudsonneverwentthrough.Iresendit,butitfailsagain.SoItry hisoldemailaddress.Itbouncesback.Whatthehell?
“What’s wrong with you?” Jake’s at the table now. His stubbled cheek is rosy from the cold and roundedoverabiteofpie.“DidyougetweirdwhileIwasgone?”Hepointshiscrumb-coveredforkat me.
“I’mnotweird.”Ilaymyphoneinmylapandpushthefruitaroundonmyplate.CouldHudsonhave changedhisnumber?TheoneIusedisfromlastyear.
“Well,you’renotactingnormal,”hesays.JakeisfiveyearsolderthanIam.Normalusedtobefixing my Shake ‘N Bake oven and building me pillow forts. Then he started high school, and it switched to
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