Lost in the Moment and Found (Wayward Children #8)(9)

Antsy had long since figured out that “big responsibility” didn’t just mean teaching the baby fun things, even if she wasn’t expected to change diapers or wipe noses. Her mother couldn’t do a lot of her own chores since she’d gotten too big to bend over, and somehow this always translated to Antsy doing them, even when they were things she’d never done before, like dusting or trying to run the vacuum, and never to Tyler doing them.

He mowed the lawn and he took out the trash and he did the grocery shopping, and somehow that was enough. But she’d been stepping up this whole time. She frowned at her mother. “Like how?” she asked.

“Cleaning the bathrooms,” said her mother.

Antsy blinked. “But I did, this weekend,” she said.

“Please don’t lie to me again,” said her mother. “I know Tyler did it.”

Antsy stared at her for a moment before she walked around the table and sat, folding her hands in her lap like she’d been taught to do when she was the first one to dinner. She could tell when arguing wasn’t going to do her any good, and this was one of those times. Her mother had that thin line between her eyebrows that meant she wasn’t all the way listening anymore, because she already knew Antsy wasn’t going to tell her the truth. Better not to bother.

Silent, Antsy looked down at her hands until she heard Tyler come out of the kitchen, carrying a jug of milk in one hand and a serving platter of what looked like hamburgers in the other. He set them down, then returned to the kitchen, returning a second time with a big salad bowl and a plate of tater tots.

“Everybody dig in,” he said, sitting and dishing a healthy amount of salad and one of the sort-of hamburgers onto his own plate.

Antsy’s mother did the same, smiling at Tyler the whole time. “Thank you for fixing dinner,” she said. “Everything looks wonderful. Antsy, don’t just take tater tots. You have to eat some salad.”

Antsy nodded and reached for the bowl but stopped before she touched it, pulling her hand away. “I can’t,” she said.

Her mother frowned, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“It has peppers all in it,” said Antsy.

“It’s been what, a year since you tried eating one? A lot can change in a year,” said her mother. “Maybe you like peppers now. Take some salad.”

Antsy made a face but scooped some salad onto her plate. She could always eat around the peppers to make her mother happy. Then she took one of the weird hamburger things. It smelled sort of like spaghetti smelled, and it was dripping. It looked like Tyler had just made a thick spaghetti sauce and put it on a bun. Why did that need a special name?

Tyler waited until they all had some of everything and milk in their cups before picking up his own burger-thing and taking a big bite. Antsy had learned to wait until at least one of the adults was eating, to keep herself from finishing too far ahead of everyone else. She picked up her Sloppy Joe and took a tentative bite.

Then she froze, the hated, revolting taste of peppers coating her tongue. Tyler was looking at her like he was daring her to spit it out. She saw a trap snapping shut in his expression, baited with her carrying the forbidden plates and primed by his lying to her mother. She couldn’t understand what it was supposed to do; she just knew she didn’t like it. Antsy put the Sloppy Joe carefully back on the plate and took a big gulp of milk, washing the single bite she’d taken down her throat.

“I’m sorry my head hurts can I please be excused?” she said, all a rush, with no pauses to breathe or choose a better path through the sentence.

Her mother blinked and sat up a little straighter, suddenly focused on her daughter. “Are you all right?”

“She’s just trying to make sure she doesn’t get in trouble for using the wrong plates,” said Tyler. “She felt fine a minute ago.”

If he could lie, so could she. “No, I didn’t,” said Antsy. “My head’s been hurting all afternoon, but I didn’t want to whine and make Mom worry when she doesn’t feel good already, so I didn’t say anything. But now it hurts worse because I can smell food, and if I eat my whole dinner, I’m afraid I’ll be sick.”

That was the best threat she had. Even with her mother unable to do most of her chores, Antsy had faith that she wouldn’t want Antsy to clean up her own sick if she lost her dinner—and if she forced herself to keep eating peppers, she would lose her dinner. And Tyler wasn’t going to clean up a little kid’s sick, especially when that kid wasn’t his own.

“You can go to your room,” said her mother. “But only to your room. This isn’t freedom to do whatever you want. No television, no dessert. We’ll talk about the plates in the morning.”

They would, too, if she remembered; Antsy could see the promise in the line between her mother’s eyebrows, even as she could see the weariness that meant the conversation probably wouldn’t happen. She certainly wasn’t going to be the one to start it. She tried hard to be a good girl—always had and always would—but she was still a six-year-old being accused of something she hadn’t done, and the longer she could avoid that trouble, the happier she would be.

Leaving her dinner, salad, and tater tots untouched, a single bite taken from her Sloppy Joe, Antsy rose from the table and crossed to peck her mother on the cheek and nod respectfully to Tyler. “Goodnight,” she said.