All the Little Lights(6)

“You tell me.” I made a face, and he laughed. “My specialty. White bean chicken chili.”

“It’s too hot for chili.”

“Okay, shredded pork tacos, then?”

“Don’t forget the corn,” I said, setting down the apple core before taking his place at the sink.

I filled the basin with warm water and soap, and while the water bubbled and steamed in the background, I made one sweep around the rooms on the main floor for dirty dishes. In the back drawing room, I peered out the window, searching for the boy. He was sitting next to the trunk of the oak tree, looking at the field behind our house through the lens of his camera.

I wondered how long he was planning to hang out in our backyard.

The boy paused and then turned to catch me watching him. He pointed his camera in my direction and snapped a picture, lowering it to stare at me again. I backed away, unsure if I was embarrassed or creeped out.

I returned to the kitchen with the dishes, put them in the sink with the rest, and began to scrub. The water sloshed on my shirt, and while the bubbles washed away the mess, Dad marinated the pork roast and put it in the oven.

“Too hot for chili in the Crock-Pot, but you’re okay with turning on the oven,” Dad teased. He tightened Mama’s apron around his waist; the yellow fabric with pink flowers matched the faded damask wallpaper that covered all the main rooms.

“You look dapper, Dad.”

He ignored my jab and opened the fridge, sweeping his arm in dramatic fashion. “I bought a pie.”

The refrigerator hummed in reaction, accustomed to the struggle of cooling its contents whenever the door opened. Like the house and everything in it, the fridge was twice as old as me. Dad said the dent at the bottom added character. The once-white doors were covered in magnets from places I’d never been and dirty splotches from stickers Mama had placed when she was a girl only to remove as an adult. That fridge reminded me of our family: despite appearances, the various parts worked together and never gave up.

“A pie?” I asked.

“To celebrate your last day of ninth grade.”

“That does call for celebration. Three whole months without Presley and the clones.”

Dad frowned. “The Brubakers’ girl still giving you trouble?”

“Presley hates me, Dad,” I said, scrubbing the plate in my hand. “She always has.”

“Oh, I remember a time when you were friends.”

“Everyone is friends in kindergarten,” I grumbled.

“What do you think happened?” he asked, closing the fridge.

I turned to him. The thought of recalling every step along the way that changed Presley and her decision to be friends with me did not sound appealing at all. “When did you buy the pie?”

Dad blinked and fidgeted. “What, honey?”

“Did you get the day off?”

Dad sported his best painted-on smile, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes. He was trying to protect me from something he didn’t think my barely fifteen-year-old heart could handle.

My chest felt heavy. “They let you go.”

“It was time, kiddo. The price of oil has been down for months. I was just one layoff of seventy-two in my department. There will be more tomorrow.”

I looked down at the plate, half-submerged in the murky water. “You’re not just one of seventy-two.”

“We’ll be okay, Princess. I promise.”

I rinsed the suds off the plate in my hand, looking at the clock, realizing why Dad had been so preoccupied with the time. Mama would be home soon, and he would have to tell her. Dad always saved me from Mama, and as much as I tried to do the same for him, there was no way to soften her wrath this time.

We were just getting used to hearing Mama’s laughter again, to sitting down at dinner and discussing our days instead of what bills were due.

I placed the clean plate on the counter. “I believe you. You’ll find something.”

His big hand fell softly on my shoulder. “Of course I will. Finish the dishes and wipe down the counters, and then take out the trash for me, would ya?”

I nodded, leaning in to him when he kissed my cheek.

“Your hair’s getting longer. That’s good.”

I pulled at some of the tawny strands closest to my face with my wet fingertips. “Maybe a little.”

“Are you going to finally grow it out some?” he asked, hope in his voice.

“I know. You like it long.”

“Guilty,” he said, poking my side. “But you wear it the way you like. It’s your hair.”

The hands on the clock made me work faster, wondering why Dad wanted Mama to come home to a clean house and dinner on the table. Why make sure she’s in a good mood just to break bad news?

Until the past few months, Mama had been worrying about Dad’s job. Once a haven for retirees, our small town had been deteriorating around us—too many people and not enough jobs. The large oil refinery in the next city over had merged, and most of the offices had already been relocated to Texas.

“Are we going to move?” I asked, putting away the last of the pans. The thought lit a spark of hope in my chest.

Dad chuckled. “It takes money to move. This old house has been in Mama’s family since 1917. She might never forgive me if we sold it.”