Playing Pretend

Seriously, I can't breathe.

Once my hair was brushed.

Once. 

And my teeth were brushed.

Twice.

And I found the most intimidating outfit I could find, a red sundress that my brother hated and Josh - who does actually exist - loved. 

I decided that I was ready to go downstairs. Usually on a Sunday I'd be in bed for another three hours, scrolling through news feeds and moaning about the bad decisions I made the night before, but by the time I had plopped myself on the kitchen bench the microwave clock read only 9:30. 

Mom places a steaming plate of pancakes, with strawberries and cream, in front of me and it takes all the strength I have not to inhale it like a rabid dog. Instead I take a small sip of my coffee, thank god, and shove a strawberry in my mouth. 

"So, when is our guest supposed to be gracing us with his presence?" I mumble, downing a mouthful of pancakey goodness with another sip of coffee. 

Mom aims her spatula in between my eyes like a loaded gun. I gulp a little harder. 

"August, will be here in about half an hour."  She says, a little to snappy for my liking. "And please El, don't refer to him as guest when he's here. I want him to feel as at home as possible." 

"Mom, he's not moving another neighbourhood across, he's moving states. Do you remember when we moved here from Raleigh? It took me at least two years to stop freaking out every time I saw Times Square." I stab another strawberry, shaking my head. "He won't feel at home here, I can tell you that much." 

She leans against the bench and gives me a look that I know all too well. A look that tells me I need to shut-up, and soon, otherwise I would have a spatula size mark on my forehead in a matter of seconds. Dad had always said that was when I reminded him of Mom the most, when we were peeved off. 

I had inherited Mom's features, but my Dad's colouring. Mom's ginormous eyes, but in Dad's mix of green and yellows. Mom's pouty lips, but Dad's constant Californian tan. I had been dumped with Dad's golden locks, but it fell in thick heavy waves just like Mom's. It was if they split me in the middle and hoped for the best. And although I loved them both, I curse whoever's in charge up there for not giving me Mom's chestnut curls.  

A stray tendril had fallen out from her ponytail, but from the looks of it she didn't care, or more to the point had bigger things to worry about than a bad hair day. Ugh, and here I was, making it worse. 

Feeling guilty I force a smile I hope is believable, "I guess I can act like a decent human being for a little while. But! You only get nice Elsie until the summer, after then I'm staring a gang dedicated strictly to robbing kittens from little old ladies and toddlers." 

A ghost of a smile pulls at her lips, "Deal. But I get at least five kittens or the deal is off. Do you understand young lady?"

I swallow the last of my pancakes and grin through my whipped cream, "You drive a hard bargain, but I think we have ourselves a deal." 

Our laughs are almost so loud that we almost miss Dad yelling downstairs. Usually I would just do what I always did and ignore him completely, but what he was yelling this morning didn't involve wet towels on the floor or bad math grades. 

This yelling involved a boy. A boy about to move in right across the hall. A boy I hadn't seen since before it became socially unacceptable to eat glue and could quite possibly be a serial killer now for all I know. A boy who, from the sounds of it, was about to walk in the front door. 

Mom flings her spatula in the sink, grabs my hand before I get a chance to run away and drags me down the stairs that leads into our foyer. Even though we were on the top floor, our apartment was made out of three levels. The first floor was made up of the foyer, Mom and Dad's office, and a small music studio and library. The second floor was the thriving hub of our family. It's where we cooked, ate, watched TV, and filled each other in on our days. The top floor was our bedrooms and the terrace, and until this morning there had always been a single spare room.