“Your favorite; breakfast for dinner!” My heart sputtered when she scooped up some batter and poured it onto the hot griddle. When she used a spatula to flip the contents of her pan over I saw Preppy, standing in her place, wearing his favorite red lacy apron.
“Pancakes,” I whispered, my heart sputtering into an all-out seize. I felt suddenly light headed. Stars danced in front of my eyes. I braced myself on the counter so I wouldn’t fall off the stool.
Nadine came over and set down a plate in front of me with three perfectly circular pancakes in the center, dripping with syrup. A square pad of butter swam around on top before completely melting and falling to the plate. The sweet smell assaulted my senses, dragging out every ounce of hurt and pain I felt the night I watched my friend die.
“You don’t like pancakes anymore?” Nadine asked, misinterpreting my reaction.
I shook my head. “That’s not it,” I said, struggling to make the words come out of my mouth.
“Then what’s the problem, baby girl?” Nadine asked, placing a concerned hand on my shoulder. I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
So when she pulled me into her soft chest and cradled my head, I didn’t bother resisting her hold. I was so concerned about King in the weeks after Preppy’s death that I never realized I hadn’t properly grieved for my friend. I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt my shoulders shaking. “Why the tears?”
“Because,” I managed to spit out on a short exhale.
“Because, why?”
“Because…pancakes.”
Doe
Nadine held me until I calmed down. She pushed away the plate as if it really was the pancakes that had been the source of my little episode.
We both agreed that what I needed was a good night’s rest. Nadine led me up the stairs to a door at the end of the hallway.
My room.
Lacey white curtains, soft blue walls, and a poofy pink comforter. A small off white chandelier with electric candles hung above the bed, which was lined with stuffed animals. Looking around, I couldn’t help but think of another small bedroom in another town not too far away. One with a flat mattress, the most comfortable faded blue blanket, and a broken fan blade from when Preppy’s head connected with it after enthusiastically jumping up and down on the bed.
My heart did a little flip.
In this room—my room—a corkboard hung above a simple white desk. Pinned to the board were sketches drawn on pages torn from a notebook. I walked around the room slowly, running my hand over the slightly textured walls, the shiny fabric of the throw pillows on the little window seat, and finally, over the sketches themselves, which were mostly landscapes mixed with a few portraits. I recognized a few as Sammy and another as Tanner. In the center of the board was one of the both of them together, sitting under a tree, smiling straight ahead, presumably at me.
“You love to draw. Your father about had a coronary when you said you wanted to go to art school,” Nadine offered from the doorway. “All of this has got to be hard on you.”
Yes, and for more reasons than you think.
I felt Nadine’s eyes on me as I walked around the room, willing for something to jump out at me as familiar. “I know that look,” she said.
“What look would that be?” I asked. Plucking a sketch from the board, I walked over to the bay window and held it up. The drawing of the view matched perfectly; right down to the window frame and the buttons on the cushions, as well as the expansive lawn and scattered oak trees, including the one partially obstructing the window. Nadine came into the room and sat down on the corner of the bed. I kept my back turned and continued comparing the drawing to the real version.
“Sadness. You are a beautiful girl, but sadness is not a good look on you.” I turned around and caught the tail end of Nadine’s sad smile.
I set down the sketch on the desk. “Honestly? I don’t know what to think.”
“This may sound odd, especially since you don’t remember me, but I love you like you’re one of my own babies. And no matter what your friends were doing, you were always your own person and had a good head on your shoulders. So I knew that when you disappeared out of thin air that you didn’t run away like they said. And I certainly didn’t buy the Paris crap. You just weren’t…that kind of girl.”
A blast of laughter escaped me. “Not that kind of girl? Apparently I’m the daughter of a senator, a teen mom, and was doing shady enough shit for my entire family to write me off as a runaway, so excuse my laughter, but I have no fucking clue what kind of girl I am.” It all came out in one long breath leaving me feeling a pang of guilt the instant the harsh words left my mouth.