She rolls her eyes, again, before stomping off to her room.
“You better take it off!” I call after her. “I know where you live!”
“Megan!” Mom yells for me again. “Now, please!”
Ugh.
I go downstairs with a grumbled curse. “Where are you?”
“Kitchen!” she hollers from that direction. “Hurry, please!”
Please, is one of Mom’s favorite words.
“What’s up?” I ask her as I walk into the kitchen. “Is something wrong?”
“I need you to put the cookies on those serving trays,” she says, motioning to both things. “Where’s Lora? She can help you with it.”
“I actually have to go, Mrs. Taylor,” Lora drawls, now appearing beside me, “my mom wants me home.”
How convenient.
“Oh,” Mom replies with a tsk, “well, tell her that I said hi.”
Lora smiles at her. “Will do.” She then turns to me. “Later, Meg. Have fun with the cookies.”
“Traitor,” I mutter as she leaves the kitchen.
“And no eating any of the cookies, Megan,” Mom tells me in a stern voice, “they’re for the neighborhood committee meeting tonight.”
She would’ve never known that I had some of the cookies she baked for Kyle’s school’s bake sale last month if he hadn’t snitched on me…
“Sure, Mom,” I say, starting to put the cookies onto the trays, “but do you really need this many?”
“And once you’re done with the cookies,” she starts, ignoring my question, “I’ll need you to take my blueberry bread over to the new neighbors.”
My shoulders drop at that. “But, Mom, wh—”
“I really wish I could do it, me being the committee president and all,” she says with a sigh, “but with the meeting tonight, and Kyle having a sleepover at his friend’s house…there’s just no time.”
I roll my eyes at how “disappointed” she sounds, because I know that she actually likes being busy. If there’s not something going on every flippin’ day of her planner—she will literally freak out.
“And when you do take the bread to our new neighbors,” she continues, taking her polka-dot oven mitts off, “make sure you give them my sincerest apologies.”
I fight back another eye-roll. “Sure thing.”
She nods in approval. “Good, now…”
I continue to transfer the cookies as she bustles around while muttering under her breath, but then I stop when a grubby hand grabs one of the triple chocolate chunk beauties. “Kyle!”
He proceeds to sticks the whole darn thing into his mouth. “Whut?”
“Megan!” Mom exclaims with her hands on her hips. “You gave him one of the cookies?”
“What? No!” I jab an accusing finger at the little monster. “He took it!”
Her lips purse at that. “Really, Megan…” She turns to Kyle and ruffles his short, brown hair. “Go wash up, okay, Ky-Ky? We’ll be leaving shortly.”
He swallows, blinks his big eyes at her, and then offers an innocent smile. “Yes, Mommy.”
I glare at him as he skips off. He’s such a kiss-up.
“Now your dad will be home tomorrow after his convention,” Mom states in a matter-of-fact tone, “so can you tidy up a little around the house?
I point to myself in disbelief. “Me?”
“And keep an eye on Hailee tonight,” she instructs as she unties her matching polka-dot apron, “I don’t want her watching that Cloverdale show, okay?”
“MOM!” Hailee’s shrill voice rings from upstairs before I can even complain to Mom. “KYLE IS IN MY ROOM!”
“Coming! And Hailee, please…” Mom’s voice fades out as she leaves the kitchen, and I wrinkle my nose at the delicious cookies. Why am I stuck doing everything? Example number one, Hailee’s tenth birthday party: I was volunteered to blow up the balloons for the balloon arch—without any help—all one hundred of them. Example number two, Kyle’s soccer team’s snacks: I’m the one who got stuck passing out juice boxes and granola bars, only to hear most of the kids complain about flavors and brands.
Story. Of. My. Life.
By the time I transfer the last cookie, and cover both filled trays with foil, I hear Kyle asking Mom (for the umpteenth time) about getting a dog. It’s not going to happen though. Mom “doesn’t-do-pets,” and Kyle can’t seem to get that through his head.
“Kyle…I already said no, honey,” Mom tells him in an exasperated voice as they both walk into the kitchen. “Please stop asking.” She grabs both trays off the counter, and then gives me a rushed thank you as she leaves the room again. “Don’t forget to take the bread, Megan!”
“Stupid neighbors,” I grumble after Mom and Kyle go outside, “if they moved in next week like they were supposed to, then Mom could take the bread to them.”
I grunt as I grab the plastic-wrapped blueberry bread, and then I walk into the living room. Might as well get this over with…
“Hailee!” I yell, opening the front door. “I’m going next door! I’ll be right back!”
She doesn’t reply though, so I don’t wait around. I close the door behind me after stepping outside, which causes Mrs. Penning to pause in getting her mail and to look in my direction instead. Being the great neighbor that I am, I wave to her. Then surprise, surprise, she doesn’t wave back. Typical.
I trudge across our lawn over to the new neighbors’ front yard, noting the huge moving truck that’s parked in their driveway, and I may or may not peek into the back of it. I mean, the door is open. And from what I can see, they still have quite a bit to unload.
Stop being nosy.
I pry myself away from the truck and make my way to the brown, wooden front door. Where are these people anyway? Sure, we live in a pretty safe neighborhood, but anyone could just come and loot that moving truck.
I ring the doorbell before cradling the sacred bread. “I hope the neighbors like
