The Exchange

Chapter 31

I come home from school the next day and immediately wipe off all the make-up I applied to my cheek to cover the redness. A few people noticed but I brushed it off just saying I fell off my bed and slept on the hard floor.

The house is strangely quiet so I look in the kitchen for a note.

Dear Mira,

Should be back soon if we're not home yet.

Louis and Harry

xx

Recycling the note, I shrug and slice some banana bread from while composing a text to Brandon, not in the mood to go to his party tonight.

Can't make it tonight. :'(. Maybe the next one. Really sorry!

Within minutes Brandon responds back.

Did something happen?!?

I look at the text for a while not exactly sure what to say.

No just not feeling well. :(

I hit send and take another bit of banana bread.

Aww. Feel better Love!

I stare at the text for a minute and then I reply with a thank you and smiley face. Gotta love those smiley faces. I look around the kitchen. Everything is quiet. So quiet I can hear the tick tock of the clock on the wall. What can I do to pass the time? I look out the window briefly. Most of the leaves have fallen off the trees and only a few stragglers remain. I suddenly have the craving for apple pie.

My eyes avert to the fruit bowl on the counter where I placed some fresh, local apples recently. They sit arranged in a bouquet, waiting to be used. WIthout a second thought I pull the fruit bowl closer and start slicing the apples. As I peel them my mind thinks back to yesterday and the heavy events that filled the day.

Eleanors face comes to my mind. The hatred and the anger. I never thought I could have the power to make someone so angry. I never knew one person could be the cause for someones hate and discomfort. How could I have been so stupid to put myself in that position. How could I have let myself act in an innapropriate way? Why would I allow myself to do that? Why would I allow myself to feel something so wrong was actually something so right?

I grab a large knife from the knife block on the counter and slice the apples in half, then in quarters, then eighths. I slice them until they are half the size of my palm and double the width of my finger. I throw them all into a mixing bowl roughly and sink them in freezing cold water with ice in it. I make the water as cold as I can possibly make it. With barely a thought I slice a lemon in half and squirt the juice into the water. Cold and sour.

As the apples soak in the corner of the island, tucked away from the rest of the kitchen, I start on the crust. I pull out the flour and sift it into a bowl. I do my best to remember my grandmothers crust recipe, the one so secret she refuses to allow us to share it with her inlaws. One egg, water, a hurting punch of love...

I push my palms and knuckles into the dough as I kneed it on the counter. It curves and folds under my pressure just the way I want it to. I punch it and stretch it over and over, and over again until I take a breath and feel ready to roll it into the pan and bake it.

I set a strainer in the sink and strain the now lukewarm water out of it. The apples consume me and take up all my undivided attention as I prepare them for the shell. I shake every last drop of water out of them roughly then flip them back into the bowl and flavour them with cinnamon and other spices. I work with them with my hands, roughly but with love, until I know they will have a beautiful taste when they're done. I place them in the pie shell evenly and then top it with more dough. I pick up the the whole, raw pie and think of when I used to make pies with my father and all of the tricks he used to use. My mother may be the main person in the kitchen but pies were always my fathers specialty. I carefully take the knife I used to slice the apples and skim off the uneven edges until the top of the pie crust meets the shell evenly. Using a fork I seal the ends. Then, like the rhythm of a song, I take the knife again and cut a triangular design through the top. It's almost done.