Blog Post #88: ‘I May Move Into This Kitchen and Pay Rent’

An almond butter scent drifted into a bedroom, and seated at a table, algebra book in-hand, Traci inhaled the scent, closed her eyes, and smiled but then the book slipped through her fingertips and thumped the table, and Stephanie slapped a pencil in a notebook.

“Again??” Stephanie said.

            Traci’s eyebrows elevated. “What?!” She opened her eyes and watched Stephanie point at the book.

            “That’s the third time you dropped it.” Stephanie picked up the pencil. “You act as though your aunt doesn’t feed you.”

            “Aunt Kurstin? She does, but no one bakes almond butter rolls like your mom.”

            Stephanie shoved Traci’s book closer to her. “Sure, but can her rolls help you ace algebra?”

            “Well, if an ‘A’ brought a lifetime roll supply, they would.”

            Stephanie shook her head, and the girls studied. Soon however, Stephanie’s mother shouted up a staircase:

            “Girls, dinner’s ready.”

             Traci slammed her book shut and shoved her chair backward.

            “Whoa,” Stephanie said. “Where are you going?”

            “Your mother said din—”

            “Doesn’t mean we have to head down straightaway.” Stephanie opened the book. “Finish your practice equations.”

            Traci peered at Stephanie as though she had three heads. “What?!”

            “You heard me. Scoot back to the table.”

            “But Steph, I’m hungry.”

            “Do you or do you not want me to help you improve your math grade?”

            “I do, but can you do it when I’m not hungry?”  

            Stephanie sighed and then examined a wall clock. “For half an hour—and not a moment longer—we break and then return to our lessons, okay?”

            Traci shot atop her feet. “Deal! Let’s eat!”

            The girls ambled down a staircase, through a living room, and into a kitchen where two plates—packed with turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, string beans, and an almond butter roll—laid on a table.

            Stephanie’s mother stood at a stovetop, stirring a gravy-scented pot. “Both plates sample everything prepared. Hope they’re okay.”

            Traci leapt into a seat. “Looks delish, Mrs. Henderson. Thank you.” She leaned into Stephanie’s ear. “Half hour? I may move into this kitchen and pay rent.”             Stephanie rolled her eyes.