“Yeah, burgers at two,” I say.
“Hey, maybe I can talk to your grandpa about getting in on that poker game?” She starts to walk backward, a smirk on her lips that makes it little hard to tell whether she’s being serious or not. Drums beat in the distance, and I know from experience that the glow of lights over the rooftops at the end of our street will dim in minutes. The game is done.
“My garage is your garage,” I say, gnashing my back teeth because I don’t want her to see me wince at my own lameness.
“I mean, if that were the case, you think you’d give me your code,” she says.
“It’s seven,” I say. I can tell by her quick laugh that she thinks I’m joking. “No, seriously. I put that keypad in for my mom and messed up the programming, so if you just hit seven a bunch of times, eventually it will open.”
“Wow. Seems safe,” she teases.
Her feet hit the end of my driveway and she stops backing away, giving me hope that maybe she’ll walk forward and decide to stick around a little longer. I’d stand out here and make self-deprecating jokes until morning if she let me.
“So, two?”
I stare at her, tempted to correct her that the garage is seven, but I know what she means. She means burger time.
“Sorry, yeah. Two,” I confirm before scrambling for more words. “I mean, you can come earlier, too. If you want. My mom works at the brake shop in Old Town in the morning and my grandpa and I are usually up early enough to have breakfast with her before she leaves.”
“What kind of breakfast?” Her head cocks to the right. She’s sincerely considering joining us.
“What’s your favorite?” I swear to myself that if I have to ride my bike for miles to get actual quality breakfast for Eleanor in the morning, I will.
Miles. On a BMX.
“I make the best pancakes in the entire world,” she pronounces.
“Well that’s weird,” I reply. I’m about to lie. “I’ve been told I make the best pancakes in the entire world.”
I hold her gaze in a challenge, the real Jonah trapped inside me, screaming that I’m getting us in over our head because I can barely time microwaveable dinners right.
“Oh, Jonah,” she practically sings while pointing a finger at me briefly with a tsk. “I really hate that someone’s been lying to you. Guess I’ll see you at seven, then. I’ll bring my best recipe and you try your best with yours. Grandpa Hank can be the judge.”
“Deal.” I nod.
Shit.
My knee bobs with nerves, and I swear she notices before she turns and heads into the dark house across the street. I remain in the garage for twenty minutes with my mom’s keys in my hand, staring at Eleanor’s window and waiting for any sign that she’s staring back. When I’m pretty sure she isn’t, I shut the garage behind me with the usual series of sevens and hop into my mom’s car to hit the grocery store for pancake mix before it closes.
Some recipe.
Seven
I’m not sure where I got that dose of swagger last night, but it was incredibly fleeting. My alarm went off at six, and I’ve been riffling through various cooking blogs for the last thirty minutes in search of easy tricks and tips to “take your boring pancakes up a notch.” Too bad I don’t have wild blueberries at my disposal, or farm-fresh hand-churned butter, or nutmeg. What is nutmeg? I have cinnamon, and that’s going to have to do.
On top of feeling out of my element in the kitchen, I’m also anxious about what I’m wearing, and that my hair is combed. Is it too combed? Am I trying too hard? Grandpa’s heavy steps are getting closer, which means he’s going to find out that Eleanor’s coming over, and he’s going to tell Mom, and—
“Shit!” I jerk my hand from the griddle and suck on the side of my pinky finger that grazed it. That thing heats up fast!
“What, you couldn’t wait for your birthday breakfast so you decided to get started without me?” Grandpa follows up his curious question with a round of coughing. When he regains his breath, he reaches for the fridge handle, but I slap it closed.
“No eggs today,” I announce. I’m maybe a little abrupt. I’m nervous, but also, Eleanor cannot witness the egg situation.
“Well par-don me!” He holds open palms and waggles them to play up how offended he is but quickly turns his attention to making coffee.
“Sorry, I’m just . . . I’m not sure what I’m doing, and well . . . Eleanor’s coming over.”
“Eleanor’s coming over?” My mom’s voice echoes my words and my eyes flutter closed as I stand at the sink running cold water over what I feel may be a blister forming.
“Ah, so that’s why you’re wearing the new shirt,” Grandpa Hank teases.
“It’s not new,” I retort. That’s a lie, sorta. I bought this over the summer but I just haven’t worn it yet.
“So is it the cool thing now to keep your tags hanging from the collar?” I feel a slight tug on the fabric hugging the back of my neck. “Relax, I got it.”
The sound of the kitchen drawer sliding open is followed by my Grandpa’s throat clearing. I glance to my side in time to see him unfolding his reading glasses from his pocket and sliding them on his face as he comes at me with scissors in the other hand. At this rate, I won’t be shocked if somehow he slices off a chunk of my hair while he’s at it.
With a quick snip my tag is gone, and at least one problem is solved. There
