“I have no idea how to make pancakes. I got this mix because it says ‘easy’ on the box, but I’m worried it’s boring, so—”
“So you figured you’d add cinnamon. Ah, I got it. Not bad, actually. Let’s see.” Now both my grandpa and my mom are inspecting my work with their glasses on. My mom reads the back of the box for the mix I bought and corrects some of the amounts I’ve poured. A quick check of the clock on the microwave sends a new round of panic-induced nausea through my system at the realization that I only have ten minutes until Eleanor arrives.
“Are you supposed to wear your shirts in that order?” A new critique fires in from Gramps.
“Huh?” I shift my focus from my mom at the counter to my grandpa on my other side. He tugs on the gray thermal shirt I’m wearing under my black short-sleeved button down. It’s one of those fifties-style gas station replica shirts. I always wanted one but didn’t think I was the kind of guy who could pull them off. My grandpa isn’t helping to cure me of that doubt, but it’s too late to run upstairs and change.
“That’s the look,” I grunt back with a huff, and my frustration amuses both of them. “You guys are not helping!”
“Aww, birthday boy is upset,” my mom teases, putting on her baby voice as she winks at my grandpa.
I decide then to just give up and I plop down in a chair at the opposite end of the table, my pinky finger marred by a skin bubble and my mom taking over work on the pancakes I confidently bragged about making last night. At this point, I should just welcome my grandpa’s runny eggs.
The buzz of at our door is the nail in my coffin, and I contemplate remaining glued to my chair and letting my mom or Grandpa Hank let Eleanor in. But the fear of them setting up an even worse scene than the one she’s going to get is enough to motivate me to stand and move to the door, cutting my mom off with a quick, “I got it.”
At least it smells good in here. That’s the last thought I have before I open the door to find a downright gleeful Eleanor Trombley waiting on the other side. She’s holding her own portable griddle in both hands and a variety of plastic containers are balanced on top, each containing actual ingredients. No mix in sight. Her hair is twisted into sloppy ponytails on either side of her head, and she’s wearing a huge yellow sweatshirt that’s several sizes too big so it fits her more like a dress over her black leggings and fuzzy black boots.
“It smells amazing in here!” she announces upon entry. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding because at least I got the aroma right.
“Here, let me get that,” I say, taking the griddle from her.
“Thanks,” she says, a closed-mouth grin following up. Before I close the door after her entry, I survey the house she just came from. Nothing has changed from the way it’s looked over there for the past few days. The windows are all still drawn shut, cars unmoved, and everything about the house feels either sleepy or vacant. Yet somehow, Eleanor just walked out that front door wearing sunshine yellow, and nobody over there seems to care enough to object.
“Welcome, Eleanor. Thanks for joining us.” My mom clearly has the pancake situation handled; I see three cakes already going on our griddle behind her. She also found the perfect tone and words to welcome Eleanor. I think the Trombley girls have been in this house twice in my lifetime, and both instances were while selling us Girl Scout cookies. Eleanor seems at ease in here, though, as if she’s been coming over here to hang out for years. It’s odd but also comforting. I like it—her wanting to come here—even if I don’t fully understand it.
I set her griddle down next to spot where my fraudulent pancakes are sizzling and she moves in to begin sorting out her ingredients.
“Well, a girl can’t back down from a full-on pancake challenge, can she?” she says over her shoulder.
My mom’s eyes scan to meet mine behind Eleanor’s back and I mouth Please while holding up prayer hands.
“I see, well, you look pretty serious,” my mom says, poking at a box of something Eleanor has just sat on the counter. “Jonah, you may be outmatched.”
I blow out hard and laugh.
“I’m really all talk anyhow,” I admit, sort of.
“Mmm, yes, you are,” my mom says as she passes me and presses a soft hand to my cheek.
Too hungry to wait, Grandpa Hank takes the three cakes my mom finished making for himself, and I finish up the batter, pouring out two more while Eleanor hums next to me as she eyes the levels of everything she measures.
“Where’d you learn all this?” I tilt my head toward her mixing bowl.
“Oh, culinary. At school. Did you take it?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“I mean, if I’m too busy for shop class . . .”
Her head shakes with a soft laugh at my joke.
“Right. Well, you missed out,” she says, dotting my nose with the tip of her finger. I watch it come at me and get cross-eyed. “Miss Dupont was a pastry chef in New Orleans before she moved here, so we made a lot of cookies and croissants.”
“That sounds delicious,” my mom says, settling into one of the chairs at the table behind us.
“But I can solve for the derivative, and if I had not doubled up on advanced college math classes, where would you be?” I say to my mom, holding my palms out to my
