I open the fridge and am hit with a burst of cool air. Tamara labels each area for specific types of food: dairy, raw meat, vegetables, sauces, you name it. She even colour-codes the labels, so it’s easy to spot the ingredients I need.
"Where are they?" Tamara says, turns around quickly, and one of the spoons on the counter falls.
"No need to fumble," I say as I hand her the eggs and cheese then pick up the spoon on the floor. "Bob’s your uncle." The spoon clatters as I drop it in the sink.
"No wonder you’re the songwriter in this family," Tamara quips.
I exaggerate a bow. Tamara giggles and her left hand moves with the motion. A few wisps of egg white colour the air.
"Oi!" I shout and jump back.
"Sorry!" Tamara says, still laughing.
"You sure you know how to use that thing?" I point at her spatula.
"I’m a horrible cook, I know." She instructs me to set the table as she fusses over the toaster.
Dad’s sat at the table, reading, as I begin arranging the utensils.
As I finish placing the last knife on the table, Tamara comes in with plates full of food.
"How’s your paper coming along, Tamara?" Dad asks. His gaze shifts from The Financial Times to her.
"I’ve gone through the case over and over," she says. "And identified all the applicable laws, but I’m not done." Tamara plops on the chair beside him and throws up her hands. "It’s due next week!"
As if it isn’t enough that she’s on full scholarship at The University of Oxford, she’s also an active member of Oxford Law Society.
"So that’s why you cooked breakfast," I note and pour myself a cuppa. Her definition of taking a break is doing chores.
"I’m sure it’ll end up all right," Dad says, diving back to his paper. "You always find a way."
"Good morning, my dears," Mum says as she descends the stairs with my little brother Timmy trailing behind her. She gives us a big kiss each.
Timmy yawns as he sits beside me. He pushes his round spectacles back in place and buries his nose in a science book. Don’t ask me what about. He’s only nine, but the books he reads are beyond me.
"Now, Timmy dear, what have I said about reading at the table before we eat?" Even as Mum chastises him, it sounds more like a song.
Dad looks up from his paper, his expression grim.
Timmy gives Mum a sheepish look, shuts his book and slides it away.
"My good boy," she says and takes the seat opposite Dad. They haven’t resolved a fight, then. They think locking their door shields the noise, but the thin walls don’t hide the slamming, stomping, or their clashing high-pitched voices.
"Tamara, why on earth did you cook up a feast?" Dad scowls seeing the eggs, toast, sausages, baked beans and bacon.
"No reason," Tamara answers, unfazed. "Isn’t nice to start the day with a big, hearty meal?"
"Don’t worry about it, love," Mum assures her. "It's well within our budget."
Every single thing we spend our money on, Dad jots down in the tattered lime green notebook he carries in his back pocket.
"There’s no need for extravagant meals. We had a massive one last week," Dad says, referring to my party.
"Jim," Mum chastises.
It's a constant frustration of his that we have to live under such a stringent (note: self-imposed) budget for everything. Benji and Eric are lucky they don’t need worry about this sort of thing.
"It's okay." I stick up for Tamara. "She wanted to do this."
"Okay," is all he says.
As we dig into our food, Tamara and Mum discuss a light topic in hopes of quelling the tension.
"Cameron, did you use the computer last night?" Dad asks, referring to the computer in our living area that we all share. "I can't access my files because there's a virus." He sneaks an accusatory glance at me.
Someone’s in a good mood.
"I clicked on something when I was researching about the evolution of man," Timmy confesses with his head low. "It was still okay last night…"
"That's all right." Dad's tone softens. "You be careful, okay? We can't go on replacing computers every year."
"So it’s my fault again? I wish you wouldn’t pin down every little thing that goes wrong in this house on me," I say.
Timmy's big eyes bounce between Dad and me.
"If you learned to follow what I tell you, then you'd give me no reason to suspect you," he says.
"Cameron isn’t a nuisance," Timmy pipes in.
I pat his shoulder and thank him in a whisper.
"That's enough, honey." Mum touches Dad's arm.
I look away.
"What are everyone’s plans for the summer?" Dad asks.
"I start debate class next week!" Timmy announces, excited. He has two summer classes: debate and football.
"Following in your sister’s footsteps…Good!" Dad beams. "What about you, Cameron?" He looks at me, expectant.
"I’m keeping my part-time jobs at the station and the factory," I say. I don’t tell him that gig-hopping or jamming with Benji and Eric are in the mix.
Benji and Eric don’t need jobs, but they each have one just the same. I used to think they got their first jobs to keep me company, but later on I realised it was their way of rebelling against what was expected of them.
"It’ll be good to apply for the factory’s managerial internship program," Dad says. "It pays well and it’s great training. I could give in a good word for you."
"It’s all right, Dad," I reply. "I’ve got it sorted with URadio and at the factory. They’ve both extended my hours, so the pay’s good."
I spend at least four hours at the factory every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Between the admin tasks and heavy lifting, it’s more than enough for me.
"No harm in applying for the internship," Dad continues. "Why don’t you give it a go?"
Mum eyes us like a tennis match, ready to umpire if need be.
"No, thanks, Dad." I try to stay calm. My foot
