Loom

1. Theodore

08/31/2007

In the vibrant, eclectically decorated Rivera kitchen, the first hint of morning light kissed the faded green paint of the walls, turning old chips and cracks into a canvas of dappled shadows. The soft hum of Barbra Rivera's voice filled the air, seamlessly blending with the sizzle of chiles and the scent of freshly cooked tortillas, a recipe passed down through generations, simple yet full of the comfort of home. Her hands, adorned with traces of flour, moved with a love-worn elegance over a pan that had seen better days.

Theodore, affectionately dubbed 'Theo' by those who knew him best, stood on a stool with a wobble he'd come to master, watching every move intently. His dark, curly hair was a playful mess, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and curiosity. "Mamá," he began, trying to mimic her fluid motions, "why do tortillas always fight back when I try to flip them?"

Barbra chuckled, her laughter as warm and inviting as the kitchen itself. "Maybe they know you're up to no good, mijo," she teased, effortlessly flipping a tortilla. The golden-brown disc landed perfectly back in the pan.

Theo attempted another flip, his tortilla doing a half-twirl in the air before plopping back down. "Almost had it," he mused, but not without a small wince as he felt the sting of hot oil on his fingertips. "Ouch!"

His mom tossed him a dish towel, threadbare but clean. "Careful now, we can't have you starting school with burnt fingers."

He smirked, "Two more weeks, mamá. Two more weeks of freedom."

Theo's focus was interrupted by a soft thud and a stifled giggle from the kitchen doorway. He didn't need to look to know Ethan was lurking there, the usual preamble to some kind of mischief. The kitchen had seen its fair share of Ethan's pranks – some harmless, some ending in a scolding when the laughter faded too quickly into a cry or a crash.

"Ethan," Theo warned, the lightness in his tone belying the sharpness of his vigilance, "I'm wielding hot oil here." he called out, his voice firm yet tinged with the warmth of brotherly affection. "This is a prank-free zone, got it?"

"Remember the Great Flour Disaster, mijo?" Their mother interjected. The reminder hung in the air, heavy with the memory of white powder coating every surface, the cleanup lasting hours.

Ethan's chuckle dimmed, replaced by a sheepish, "Oops..." as he pulled back his foot, a silent promise of a temporary truce. Theo's lips twitches into a relieved smile, turning back to his task, the unspoken understanding clear – some pranks were better left for the outdoors.

The kitchen's morning tumult settled as Theo expertly landed the tortilla in the pan. He shared a victorious grin with Barbra, who then scooped scrambled eggs and chorizo onto plates, the aroma filling the room with the promise of a hearty breakfast.

The kitchen table was a collection of mismatched chairs, each one telling its own story of countless meals and family gatherings. As Barbra called everyone to eat, Noah rushed in, his arrival signalled not by a football thud but by the scrape of his chair on the linoleum floor, saving his presence for a more opportune time. His practice-worn football jersey hung loosely over his frame, a silent testament to many games and scrimmages.

Glancing at the food-laden table, he smirked, "Wow, looks amazing, mama. What's everyone else eating?" His grin widened at his own joke, the appetite of Copperdale High's new linebacker apparent.

Theo, quick to the challenge, speared a hefty portion of eggs. "Dream on, you're not the only one bulking up here," he countered, his own plate a testament to a growing boy's needs.

Barbra, done with cooking, settled into her chair with her cherished coffee mug, the one adorned with 'World's Best Mom' – a joint Mother's Day gift from all her boys. She cradled it gently, a small daily ritual of her own. "Leave some for Dad, boys," she reminded them, her eyes briefly meeting Theo's. "He'll be home for breakfast soon."