Ugly : clifford a.u

Michael

“I’m hungry.”

“Congratulations.”

“Can you make me dinner?”

Sighing, I turned my head in Maggie’s direction.

“Please.” She whined.

Annoyed I rose to my feet and tripping numerous times on Maggie’s strewn shoes and toys, made my way to the kitchen.

Crossing over to the refrigerator I pulled the large, heavy door open and groped around in confusion until my fingertips brushed against the loaf of bread.

Tucking it under my arm, I felt the many condiment containers which resided in the refrigerator door until finally finding the jelly jar.

Carrying the items to the counter I set them down before fumbling around for several minutes in the pantry looking for the peanut butter.

Pleased with myself, I opened the bread and pulling out two slices set to work slathering them with peanut butter and jelly.

When I’d finished, I pressed the two pieces of bread together and wary of my fingers, sliced the sandwich into what I hoped was halves.

Screwing the lid on the peanut butter I began to put everything away when I heard the slam of a car door outside. Reaching out and gripping the countertop tightly, I cocked my head to the side, listening. There was silence for several seconds, disturbed only by the movie Maggie was watching in the next room, and then I heard it, the jiggling of the doorknob.

I knew who it was, I always knew, but it never failed to scare me none the less.

I heard the door open with a creak, then close with a slam. The click of high heels sounded on the linoleum and then they were kicked off with a thud.

“I’m home!” my mom’s familiar voice rang out.

“Nana!” Maggie shrieked, her bare feet slapping loudly on the kitchen floor, a gust of air accompanying her as she ran past me.

Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart I listened as Maggie told my Mom about her day, and as promised, how I’d said a rather choice word after stepping on a Lego.

“Maggie.” Mom sighed, entering the kitchen, “Can you give me a minute?”

“Mags your dinner is ready.” I announced, holding out the flimsy paper plate which held her sandwich.

“Ew.” She muttered in reply, poking at the sandwich, making the plate dip in my hands.

“What?” I demanded, offended, and instantly understanding why chefs spat in the food of complaining patrons.

“What the heck is this?” Maggie demanded.

“Peanut butter and Jelly.” I replied.

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“Nana.” She sighed, her tone dripping with her intolerance for my incompetence.

“Yes?” Mom muttered, walking past me and opening the cupboard, the corner of it brushing against my forehead.

“Tell Michael this is not peanut butter and jelly.” Maggie huffed.

Letting out a breath of annoyance, Mom snatched the plate from my hands. Crossing over to the sink she turned on the tap then the garbage disposal.

“She’s throwing it out.” Maggie informed me smugly.

“What, why?” I demanded.

“Nutella and Marmalade.” Mom muttered in way of reply.

“What am I supposed to eat?” Maggie asked.

“I’ll make you dinner.” Mom answered, “Go play.”

Agreeing, Maggie ran away, the floor vibrating beneath my foot as she went. Waiting until she was gone I turned to my Mom.

“How was work?” I questioned.

“Same as it is every other day.” She snapped.

Wincing, I took several steps back so as not to be in her way. I knew my Mom didn’t like her job. She’d used to work from home as a piano teacher, however after Emily died, she’d gone in a four month funk, losing all of her students, which was how she’d wound up the Gut Ditch Dispatcher.

I never knew quite what to expect when she came home. Some days, she was happy and things were great, and other days, her mood was as sour as the lemons she put in her tea, and she seemed to make it her personal mission to ruin everyone else’s days along with her own.

“Can you move?” she demanded, startling me, “You’re in the way.”

“When am I not?” I asked, annoyed.

“Don’t start.” She warned, noisily pulling a pot from the cupboard under the sink.

“Did I do something?” I questioned.

“No Michael. You didn’t do anything. You never do anything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like!” she cried, slamming the pot down on the counter with a dull clang, “I work all day! I come home and have to feed Maggie, I’ll have to take Lola out later, the house is a mess…”

“How am I supposed to know the house is a mess?” I laughed humorlessly, “I can’t see it!”

“That’s not an excuse! I’d just like some help, for once!”

“No.” I replied, “You know what you want, a kid that can see.”

“Yeah!” she cried, “Is that so wrong of me?”

“No.” I said, forcing a smile, “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so blind.”