** Not edited, sorry for any mistakes!
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Emma’s house was a mecca for delicious food; an array of grub was meticulously laid out on the large mahogany table where The Jones and their visitors normally ate dinner. My mouth turned into a flowing waterfall as I regarded the coma inducing assortment of grub: Al Dente pasta cooked to perfection with round, spice-induced meatballs in one platter, fresh-picked, green, crunchy lettuce impeccably drenched in Italian dressing with bright red sliced tomatoes displayed around another platter, and a giant, succulent, baked turkey set as the centerpiece of this amazing evening meal — a chunk of heaven, really.
I floated over to one of the chairs but not before kissing Emma’s beautiful Italian mom on the cheek. (You see, in the Italian community, you don’t just wave and say “Hi”, you must also kiss everyone on the cheek, it is considered rude not to do so.)
“Hello Dylan, how are you?” She said in her heavy Italian accent.
“I’m great Mrs. Jones, how are you?”
“I’m good, good. You came to eat?”
“Yes ma’am I did!” I said in my best Southern accent just to make her laugh and it did. I always loved making Mrs. Jones laugh because she had the funniest laugh ever; it was a combination of a snort and a cackle and she would alter from a cackle to a snort and that laugh would make anyone within a fifty-mile radius join; her face would also turn an amusing tomato red as her chocolate fountain eyes sparkled.
God, I’m hungry. She seemed to sense this and waved me to my usual chair, across from Emma’s. I, of course had a usual chair there because I ate there every day what with my mom not being the greatest cook in the world; her food was so bad that even the neighbor’s dog, Samson (who once ate a smelly two-week old lasagna Emma’s mom made) wouldn’t go near her charcoal-burnt macaroni and cheese. So, it was starve, eat Mrs. Jones’s food, or make my own. Although I wasn’t the worst cook, I’d choose Mrs. Jones’s food over even Gordan Ramsey’s.
I sat down and helped myself to everything. Emma stared as I gobbled without taking a breath. After about ten minutes of her persistent staring, I decided to look up.
“What?” I managed through a bite of spaghetti and turkey. She winced clearly grossed out although she wasn’t the most proper eater.
“Guess Meenah works up an appetite huh?”
I looked at her confused. “What?” I repeated sounding rather dumb.
She sighed then shrugged. “Never mind,” She said to me “may I please be excused?” this to her mom.
“You barely even took two bites of your food!” Mrs. Jones gestured to her food. She looked at it distastefully then shrugged again.
“Not hungry.” Then she left and went upstairs to her room.
Emma? Not hungry? That was completely out of the question. I decided that there was definitely something wrong with Emma. I fought an internal battle with myself, debating on two things: whether I should be a good friend and find out what was wrong with Emma or be a good friend to myself and finish this delicious food. I took another bite and couldn’t swallow, I’d lost my appetite. I sighed. I have to find out what’s worng with her.
“Thanks for the food, it’s delicious. Excuse me.” I mumbled an apology and ran up the wooden stairs after Emma.
I walked to the end of the familiar hallway with 1- 16 year-old Emma smiling at me. They had yet to put up a portrait of their 17 year-old only child Emma. I stopped at the double cedar doors then knocked on the firm wood. Twice. There was no reply. I knocked again and still, there was no reply.
