Puddin'(97)

“Okay,” she says as she’s pulling out of the parking lot. “I’ve gotta pick up Kyla and then grab her recital costumes from Rosie Dickson. She put a rush on the alterations for us. And then I’ve gotta get dinner going somehow and get Kyla to her dress rehearsal.” She clicks her tongue. “I just hate to leave her there, but Keith won’t feed himself. Well, he will, but if he does it will be delivery pizza. And he doesn’t even order the good kind.”

Mama and I haven’t spoken much lately except for the sake of logistics. Who’s giving me rides where. Whether or not Mitch can come over. If I’ve done my chores or if I can stay home with Kyla. It’s not that I think she’s mad at me anymore. Just a little disappointed still, and that’s turned out to be harder to live with than I thought.

She glares up at the traffic light, willing it to change as she taps the steering wheel impatiently.

“I can make dinner,” I say, surprising even myself. Claudia always helped out with things like dinner and packing lunches, but I’ve never been quite so domestic.

“Pfft. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to time it so that I’m taking Kyla while the casserole is in the oven.” She looks over to me. “Maybe with all this extra time on your hands this summer, we can finally get your driving test over with.”

“Really, Mama, just leave me the instructions. You’ve got plenty going on tonight.”

The light turns green and she takes off. After a moment of thought, she says, “I’ll write out each and every step in detail. It’s just King Ranch casserole. You oughta be fine.” She glances over to me. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

Mama runs me home and writes out detailed instructions down to every minute and measurement for her casserole. As she’s walking back out to the car to pick up Kyla, she turns back for a moment and says, “Keith won’t be home for another couple hours.” She pauses. “Callie, I appreciate this a whole lot.”

I nod firmly. “No problem.”

I keep waiting for this one big moment when she won’t be disappointed in me anymore, but maybe that’s not how you gain back someone’s trust in real life. Maybe it’s a slow, frustrating thing that takes lots of King Ranch casseroles, so I guess this is a start.

Things with Mama have gotten slowly better. Since I’m not sitting with Millie and Amanda at lunch anymore, I’m back to spending lunch period in Mama’s office. She said she wouldn’t kick me out as long as I helped her file and answer phones, which is a fair trade for me. I think she knows something’s up with me and Millie, but she hasn’t pried. (Yet.)

Today during lunch, I was sitting behind the desk while Mama ran off to the cafeteria to get a refill on her sweet tea.

The office door swung open and someone said, “I, uh, have that doctor’s note from yesterday, Mrs. Bradley.”

I stood up to see Bryce approaching the attendance desk. “Oh,” I said. “Hey.” We’d seen each other in the hallways a few times, and I even dumped a box of his sweatshirts, some pictures, and presents he gave me on his doorstep. But this was the first time we’d actually spoken.

His face turned sheet white. “Um. I was just giving your mom this note.”

I took the note from him. I wanted to say something sharp or biting, but any hate I had for Bryce is in the past, and it’s just not worth resurrecting. “I’ll pass it on.”

He nodded. “Cool. Thanks.” He was quiet for a moment. “You look good.”

“I know,” I said, without skipping a beat. Having those last words satisfied my ego in a very delicious way, but I still had one last thing to add. “I’m sorry about your phone, by the way.”

He grunted. “Time for an upgrade, anyway.”

After cooking and shredding the chicken for my mom’s casserole—can we just agree that raw chicken is just about the grossest damn thing ever?—the front doorbell rings. I sort of feel like doorbells are as useless as landline telephones. I mean, if you’re going to come over, wouldn’t you just text me? And if you don’t have my number to text me, do I even want you coming over?

All of this flawless logic is the exact reason why I let the doorbell ring eight times before I finally shout, “What? No one’s home.”

Then come three swift, pounding knocks on the door.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter as I check to make sure I’m not leaving the kitchen in a the-house-might-burn-down situation.

I jog over to the door in my mother’s ruffled red-and-white polka-dot apron and swing the door open.

“Oh, hell no,” I say the moment I see what’s waiting for me, and I swing the door shut again, locking the deadbolt and the chain.

“Callie,” says Ellen through the door. “We come in peace.”

“I don’t know about peace,” says Willowdean. “But could you at least pretend to have an ounce of manners and let us in?”

“What do you want?” I shout back.

“Tell her,” I hear Willowdean whisper.

Ellen says something too quietly for me to hear.

“We’re here on a mission,” Amanda shouts.

“Not for you,” Willowdean clarifies.