“How about you make the coffee and I scramble us some eggs?” Grandpa asks.
I swallow hard, my back to him and my attention on the coffee pot, and utter out a tepid, “Sure.” My grandpa’s eggs are runny as hell. They’re barely edible. I have to eat them fast in order to choke them down. The unfortunate result of that is that my grandpa thinks I gobble them up because I like them so much. I just don’t have the heart to break it to him. Every time he stands at that stove, he waxes on about his years as a cook in the army. I bet the soldiers slurped those suckers down out of desperation, too. I remind myself each time that I can use the protein. Runny eggs are as close as I get to working out.
Mom’s already gone to work. She started taking on weekend shifts at the garage in Old Town, answering phones and keeping up with the books. I don’t think the owners actually need the help; they aren’t very busy. It’s a charity gig, but it pays the gas and electric bills, so my mom goes dutifully. Thank God for the business of doing taxes. It’s all my mom does in both jobs, and she’s the last person her company will ever let go, or so she says.
“You hear the big ruckus across the street last night?” My grandpa’s question is his way of asking why I don’t go to parties. He thinks I need a social life. He’s right. He’s also caught me staring across the street on more than one occasion. He’s polite enough to not bring up the “pretty blonde girl” this early in the morning; he usually waits for his evening whiskey to kick in to needle me.
I do stare, though most of the time I’m too afraid to actually talk to Eleanor. In fact, we’ve probably only exchanged words a handful of times. All of the Trombley girls are beautiful, but Eleanor, she’s special. Eighteen, hair that falls in waves, and a cheerleading uniform that fits as if she was born to wear it, she’s literally a dream girl. My dream girl.
But it’s more than how pretty she is that has me captivated. I can’t quite pin what it is exactly, but ever since junior high, I have been smitten with her. Like the way awkward superheroes fall for normal humans with no explanation at all. Sadly, I possess no superhuman skills to wow her with or employ to leap into danger to save her. That doesn’t stop my massive crush, though. Maybe it’s her confidence, or maybe the smile she wears like a badge of honor, pushing her cheeks into round cherries. I could pick her laugh out of a crowd in a heartbeat. It’s as though it was created for me to hear, to recognize, and I don’t really know why.
I shake my head, realizing a lot of time has passed.
“I must have really been knocked out,” I finally respond. I gently kick a chair leg to make room for my thin frame to slide in while my grandfather coughs out a laugh at my expense. I have a feeling he knows I was daydreaming about Eleanor. I set his coffee by the seat next to me, then cradle my own mug and breathe in the steam coming from the top. I’ll need this smell to trick my brain into telling my mouth that these eggs I’m about to get aren’t a threat.
Grandpa shuffles in a circle, pan in one hand and one of mom’s blue plates in the other. He slides what he likes to call an omelet onto the dish before setting it down in front of me.
“Mmmm,” I hum through tight, lying lips.
This time, the cheese he sprinkled on top is melted. That’s a positive step.
My lips pressed to the rim of my cup, I suck down a hot sip that coats my tongue with the bitterness of pure black coffee, then immediately scoop up a quarter of my eggs. The texture is its usual gag-worthy self, but I’ve managed to temporarily burn my taste buds enough to get through this first bite.
“Someone has a birthday next week.” He’s talking about me. The big one-eight. It’s not that I’ve forgotten, I just don’t get excited about my birthdays anymore. When I was nine or ten, we had parties. There would be cake and presents, and Dad actually took time off from work. It’s hard not to see my birthday as a financial inconvenience now. Especially since my mom insists I don’t work part time during the school year. I saved a good amount from cleaning movie theaters all summer to pay for incidentals, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Grandpa slices a thick pat of butter and swirls it in the hot pan; it crackles as it melts. I wonder how much of what I’m eating is egg and how much is butter.
“You think about what you want?” he asks, turning to meet my gaze. It shakes me out of my head and I shrug.
“Not really.” There’s a tinge of pity in his eyes while we stare at one another, both probably realizing how sad that statement is. I’m a boy about to hit a huge milestone and I couldn’t care less about the celebration of it all.
I drop my focus back to my plate and immediately shovel another forkful of eggs into my mouth, relieved when I see my grandpa turn his back to me again in my periphery. Sometimes, it’s hard to pretend
