Letters To Ava

Thirteen: The Mailbox

My head is in my cereal bowl.

I'm not kidding. I woke up, but I'm still half-asleep. I slept later than usual, last night, so that explains it. I headed down clad in nothing but socks and boxers (the regular ones) and proceeded to pour a mountain of cereal into my bowl. Mom came out carrying the fresh milk that's always delivered at our door every morning and tried not to look below my torso. And then while I was busy getting a spoon, I heard a slosh of liquid moving and witnessed my mother do the unthinkable.

She poured milk on my cereal.

I dropped the spoon and grabbed her hand and begged her to stop. She looked at me, puzzled.

"What, you don't like milk on your cereal?"

"It's not that. It's the fact that you did it for me," I told her with a sour tone. Mom narrowed her eyes. Before she could say a word, I said, "I hate it when others pour milk onto my cereal. They don't know how much milk I want. They don't know me, they don't know my life!"

She rolled her eyes. "But I'm your mother."

"Duh."

She smacked me on the head (playfully; she had a smile on her lips) and put the milk in the fridge. She disappeared from the kitchen. I grumbled to myself how I should guard my bowl at all times, sat on my usual chair at the dining table, pulled out a worn out paperback copy of The Fault In Our Stars (a masterpiece by John Green)from under the table (Dad put a wooden, sort-of shelf-like space under there where can put our phones and stuff), flipped to page 394, and read while eating cereal.

Then while I was eating, somehow milk splashed onto my boxers. I only noticed when the fabric was sticking on my skin. I grumbled a few, colourful swear words and stood up to access the situation.

This proved to be a mistake, because a familiar deep voice sliced through the silence of the dining room.

"My God, Carter!" Luke, my cousin, cried out with the necessary dramatics. "I thought you stopped wetting yourself at the awkward age of ten?"

I felt my cheeks flush. "First of all, I stopped at seven, if you're gonna insult me get the facts straight first. Second of all, this is cow milk. Third," I went back to my chair and, without thinking, put my head in the bowl filled with an inch of milk left. My voice muffled, I still continued, "This is not Carter."

So here I am. Red cheeked, face bowled, soaked boxers, humiliated.

I feel my hair being yanked. My face reappears for the whole world to see. I groan, eyes still closed because of the milk pouring down my face. Okay, so maybe hiding in the bowl isn't a good idea. "Luke, do me a favour and go die."

I hear a sound, the one you hear when a camera takes a picture. Wait a sec...oh no. No, no, no, no, please tell me Luke didn't-

"Oh, well, if you insist. I was actually going do you a favour and not tell anyone, but okay. I'll die. College is already killing me slowly." He releases my hair and my eyes flutter open. He's across my side of the table, grinning at me, and leaning towards me, his phone in front of my face.

Oh, God.

I give him my best, nastiest glare ever.

He takes a picture. "Nice. Another one, please. A lil' bit to the left-find your angle-move, you idiot. Okay, fine, be that way. I already took the pic anyway." He pockets his phone and smiles in triumph. "Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr thank you for your donation to social media entertainment."

I snorted. "You have Instagram? What do you post there, food?" I admit, not one of my best insults, but my brain is still whirring to life. Give it time.