bags, cups, and old food packages off the top. A few things missed the bag and bounced onto the floor, but I could deal with that later. I found not one, not two, but three big margarine containers full of those little plastic clips that come on bread packages. It only took one trash bag to clear most of the stove and uncover the burners. Real safe to have things piled on top of something that actually makes fire all these years, but it didn’t seem to have worried Mom. On a hunch, I turned the knob for the burner, thinking that like everything else in this house it wouldn’t work, but to my surprise it clicked and with a small whoosh burst into a bright blue flame.
Maybe I could start cooking in here one day, if I could get the memory of the old kitchen smell out of my brain. Once Phil moved back, I’d make meals for the two of us—I’d have to start watching the Food Network to get some ideas. Maybe I could even have people over for dinner. I could learn to make complicated casseroles and fancy appetizers. Someday, after all this had been taken care of, maybe I could even have Josh over for dinner. It would be amazing having him in
Working my way from the stove toward the sink, I cleared the counters pretty quickly. There were a few things that might have been worth keeping, but I had to just close my eyes and toss them in the garbage. Mom had three thermoses sitting next to the sink, and I could have saved them for the Salvation Army, but the thought of having some poor unsuspecting worker actually opening one of the jars and encountering some sort of festering, mummified stew was just too cruel. In the bag they went. Opened Diet Pepsi cans that were full of something that was probably liquid once but had through the wonders of science turned solid? In the bag. A shoebox full of bottle caps? In the bag. A plastic grocery bag full of some gelatinous brown goo that was probably produce at one point? Definitely in the bag.
All the hard work made me forget about the cold wind that blew through the open windows. That and the rapid progress I was making toward the sink. Under a pile of plastic bags on the counter, I found a white dish drainer complete with dishes that had been clean once upon a time. I reached in and stroked the Underdog glass that had been the only cup I would drink from when I was little. Holding it in my hand was like discovering an old friend that I’d thought was gone forever. Underdog looked great, still bright red, white, and blue; his arm raised as he took off for parts unknown. Maybe that’s what I’d liked about him—he was always ready to go somewhere new.
For the first time in more than an hour, I stopped working and carefully wiped the glass with the bottom of my shirt to remove any traces of mold. I took the rest of the dishes out of the drainer and tossed them into the garbage bag. Aside from the Underdog glass, there was nothing here I was ever going to use again. I grabbed a coffee cup that had “World’s Greatest Mom” printed on it in flowery pink letters. I could still see traces of lipstick around the edge and could picture it sitting on the side of the bathroom sink full of coffee as she got ready for work. Mornings were the best time for talking to her when I was a little kid. I’d sit on the fuzzy pink toilet lid and watch Mom as she did her hair with the curling iron and put her makeup on. She’d ask about my second-grade teacher, Ms. Davis, who always had lipstick on her teeth and I’d usually tell her about something rotten Phil had done. If I was lucky, she’d spray some of her perfume in the air and let me walk through it so I could smell like her for the rest of the day. If I missed her while I was at school, I’d just sniff my sleeve and the smell of her perfume would make me feel safe. I didn’t remember very much about being little, but I knew, once upon a time, Mom might have deserved the World’s Greatest Mom mug.
As I held the mug over the garbage bag, I remembered with a creeping sense of dread how the dishes got into the drainer. I’d done them about four years ago, before “Garbage Girl” happened. Before I’d totally given up. It was probably the last time I’d done anything constructive in this room. In this whole house. I’d learned my lesson well.
I had planned it as a surprise for Mom. She’d been working late all week, and I’d wanted to do something that would make her life a little easier, so she’d make mine easier too. And at that point in seventh grade, I needed an easier life more than just about anything else.
Carefully pushing aside all of Mom’s stuff that had started to take over the space—after the Auntie Jean episode I knew better than to throw anything away or move it more than a few inches from where she had put it—I managed to make enough room to cook dinner. Okay,
After school that day, I’d gone down to the grocery store on the corner and picked up one of those already cooked chickens that came in the little plastic containers. If nothing else, I knew how much Mom loved those containers with the clear plastic dome on top. For her, something as simple as a chicken container held endless possibilities. After the chicken was gone, it could be a container to take food over to a sick friend, or with a slit cut in the top, become a place to put receipts. Most likely, it would become just another piece in her ever-growing collection of useless plastic containers. It was like she used up all her energy thinking about possibilities for reusing stuff, so she never got around to actually doing it. As long as something could be labeled useful, it was allowed to stay, and if you thought about it hard enough, you could figure out a use for just about anything.
French bread and salad completed the meal. Phil hated salad or anything that was naturally green, but I’d tried to make it up to him by buying ice-cream sandwiches for dessert. Just as I was setting the bags on the counter, Phil came in from his room and started poking around in my bags.
“Get out of there,” I said, slapping his hand away. “It’s for dinner.”
“Whose dinner?”
“Our dinner. Yours, mine, and Mom’s.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.” I pulled out the bag of salad and set it on a clear space on the counter. “I just thought it would be good for us to eat dinner together.”
Phil opened the cupboards and found a box of Cheez-Its that had hopefully been put in there not too long ago. After shoving a handful of crackers in his mouth, he said, “Bull.” Tiny crumbs of cracker flew out of his mouth in a dry, orange shower as he spoke.
“What?” I asked. He always thought he was so smart.
“Bull that you don’t want anything,” he said. “You’re totally fishing for something from her. What is it? You want a cat? Or a new bike?”
I made a show of concentrating on opening the salad and digging through the bottom cupboard for a cleanish bowl to put it in. “No.”
The bag crackled as he fished around the bottom for whatever crumbs were left. “Well, I’m not falling for your ‘let’s be a happy family’ act. You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t want something from her.”
I sighed and wiped a dinner plate with a wet paper towel. “It’s just that I was thinking about trying to have some girls over here. For my birthday.”
Phil wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Why would you want to do that?”
For someone in AP classes in high school, he could be such an idiot. Was it really that different for him? Did he not care that he could never have anyone over to play video games or hang around watching late-night TV? Didn’t it bother him that we always had to make excuses for why nobody could come in the house, and that we always had to figure out ways to meet people outside? Maybe boys just didn’t notice those things. Unfortunately, girls did.
“A couple of the girls in my class wanted to have a sleep-over. You know, have one over here because we always go to someone else’s house. I’ve been stalling them for months, but they’re starting to get suspicious.”
I secretly thought that Elaina from my class had a crush on Phil—God only knows why—and that’s why they all wanted to come over here. We weren’t even very good friends, but she was always asking if he was going out with somebody, or if he was going to be home after school. Elaina said once that she thought Phil’s curls were hot, and did I ever think he would grow his hair out. I gave her such a look that it never came up again. Luckily, he was in high school, and seventh-grade girls were totally off his radar.
Phil looked around the room. Knowing him, I figured whatever was going to come out of his mouth would be obnoxious. But he just nodded. “I can see how that would be a problem.”
Buoyed by his sudden understanding, I continued letting my thoughts form into words. “So I figured I’d be
