A Dance of Life

61

"Thanksgiving is only a month away, D, you have to learn how to cook," I say from the chair in the kitchen corner, my finger marking my spot in a parenting book. "Is there anything you want to specifically make?"

She's staring at the Thanksgiving cookbook in front of her, her hair packed messily on top of her head. "Did you seriously wake me up for this, Annelise?" she whines, "it's a Saturday. I'm meant to be taking a break from thinking and working."

"Yeah ... no." I adjust the pillow between me and the chair to make myself more comfortable. "I would be more involved but ..."

I point at my very swollen belly and she sighs. "I don't even know how you're still moving around with that. They're apparently the size of pineapples."

"Yup, four-pound pineapples. This is your first Thanksgiving," I say, changing the subject back to the original, "I'm sure you want to make it one for the books."

"Meh," she mutters, flipping through the pages.

"So, are you thinking along the lines of dessert or main course? Starters or sides?"

"This isn't an exam, Triple-A," she tsks. "Are you seriously telling me I'd have to practice cooking every Saturday till the twenty-sixth?"

"Which is only four Saturdays away," I say, opening my book up. "Pat's coming on the twenty-first by the way, so prepare for a roommate for a couple of weeks."

"Can't she stay till Christmas, considering the babies are coming really soon?"

"I certainly don't mind, but it's up to her," I reply. She's gathered a few ingredients and bowls in front of her, and I nod, impressed at her resourcefulness. "What are you planning on cooking?"

"Pancakes. If I can't make good pancakes I definitely can't make a Thanksgiving-worthy meal," she says matter of factly. "So let's make a deal. I'll cook two meals every Saturday in preparation, amping the difficulty as I go along. But you have to assist me. Not Nathan or your dad, you."

If I'm this immobile at thirty-three weeks, what am I going to do at thirty-seven?

She's tapping her feet and looking at me expectantly, an eyebrow raised.

"Alright, deal," I tell her with a nod.

"Great! Now you can take a percentage of the credit; 'This meal was made by Diana with the special coaching of Annelise.'"

We share a laugh as she measures out the ingredients. She asks me a few questions as she goes along so I abandon my plan to read, putting the book on the counter beside me and giving her my full attention.

She tells me how school's been going, and although she's the only new senior, nobody has been treating her weird about it. I tell her of my favorite spots to hide out when I needed to alone, knowing that high school can be overwhelming at times.

"Is there anyone that's caught your attention or your heart is still miles away with Alex?"

"Honestly," she says, pouring some of the batter onto the frying pan, "it's tiring trying to keep up, or whatever. He's so busy all the time and what's even the point? Bragging rights?"

I raise my brows as she leans on a counter, watching the pancake sizzle. "But seriously, what's even the point?" she asks.

"Of dating?"

"Yeah."

"Um, most people do it with marriage in mind, while others do it ... for fun?" I reply, scratching my chin. "But I agree with you. Sometimes it's deep down for bragging rights. 'Oh, my boyfriend is this, my boyfriend is that.' Or to have 'hashtag relationship goals.'"