Vanilla Girl

M o o s e - T r a c k s

THE TIMER GOES OFF and I jump from the couch where I've been slumping and playing 2048 on My Talking Tom. 

Yes. I've downloaded My talking Tom on my phone.

If anyone asks, I tell them I've got it because of my little brother.

Wyona gave me a skeptical look when I tried to feed her that. She didn't believe me. Not in a million years. She knows how childish I've suddenly gotten since Louis became part of the family. I've seen every single Disney movie with him and I could practically repeat all the dialogues by heart.

'My feet are sweating.
Do we need a news flash every time your body does something?
He's doing it for attention, just ignore him.'

'Ring, ring! Who's there? Destiny? I've been expecting your call.'

'It looks terrible.
Well, it matches the rest of the town.'

'On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?
Zero.'

'You are a child's play thing!
You are a sad, strange little man, and you have my pity.'

And I could go on like this forever. The worst part is that when I put a movie on, I end up getting more into it than little Louis who gets bored after twenty minutes and starts yanking at my hair.

I'm about to make a second block of 512 when a strange smell reaches my nostrils.

I sniff. 

It smells like smoke and burnt cheese.

My head jerks up.

The pizza.

I drop the phone on the couch and spring towards the kitchen. There's smoke coming out of the microwave and I can already assume the pizza has reached carbon levels. 

I quickly open the door and stupidly reach for the plate without a washcloth to protect my hand. 

"Dgamit!" I hiss as my skin makes contact with the heated safe-plate. How ironic.

Rushing towards the sink, I turn on the tap and thrust my hand under the stream. The pads of my fingers are getting redder by the second.

"Honey, what's that smell?" Comes mum's voice from the livingroom.

"It's nothing!." I shout back in a futile attempt at keeping her away.

"What happened?" She asks, sounding closer.

I'm still running my hand under the flow when I hear her heels against the kitchen tiles and her sudden intake of breath.

"Adaline! This is burning!" She exclaims as if I hadn't already noticed. "You want to set the house ablaze?" I watch as she takes a washcloth and retrieves the plate from the microwave, placing it on the counter and opening the window to let the air flow.

I eye the crisp remains of my food and I have the urge to cry. They were the only leftovers left!

"What are you doing? Did you burn yourself?"

I tear my eyes away from the burnt pizza and watch as my mother approaches my side.

"I'm fine."

"Please, tell me you didn't just throw your hand under the stream of water. Tell me I raised you better than that." She looks lile she's reciting the Lord's prayer, with her hands clutched under her chin and a pleading expression on her face.

I look down at my ruby-red fingers and turn off the tap,"Huh, yea, I did?" I reply cautiously.

"Adaline! You're gonna get blisters!" Her face morphs into one of horror. "Here, let me put you oilment at least, It'll help to heal."

She searches under the cabinets for the first-aid kit we've stacked there.

"You should be more careful. How did you burn your hand like this?" She shakes her head as she rubs my fingers with the oil.

"I forgot to pick up a washcloth." I say.

She looks at me incredulously, "How are you planning on surviving next year at college, pray tell? First off you need to learn how to cook your own food. I won't have you living on take outs."

"I can cook my own food."

"The incident you had not two minutes ago tells me the opposite  dear."

"I can cook. That was just an incident. Everyone has incidents once in a while."

"I'll sleep better of you have none of those."

"Whatever, I can cook."

"You were heating leftovers." She points out.

"I was hungry." 

"Second, you need to learn first assistance. I can't believe your first reaction was to place your hand under the tap. I'll have your father teach you some of that. He knows about those things better than I do, and god knows you need to be prepared."

"You talk as if I'm going into the battlefield."

"You'll never know what you'll find there." She replies, giving my hand one last massage before closing the lid on the kit and placing it back inside the cabinet. "Blanca told me about the scolding she gave Michael when she found out he survived on Chinese and Thai. She had to teach him the basics last time he came to visit."

I roll my eyes, she's told me this about a hundred times by now, "Well, I'm no Michael. I actually know the basics. I can fry eggs and bacon, prepare waffles and pasta. So I'd say I'm pretty equiped."

I could live on pasta my whole life.

"Plus, I know how to prepare baby food." I add.

"I hope you don't need to use that knowledge during college. I'm way too young to be a grandma."

"Mum!" I exclaim.

"What?" She asks with innocent wide eyes. "It's true."

"Someone's burnt way too many brain cells." Chirps my father, breaking into the kitchen. 

Mum's eyes immediately fasten to his and a smile breaks across her lips. "Your daughter needs a few cooking lessons."

"I do not." 

"She's in denial." 

"I am not!"

Dad makes his way behind mum and wraps his arms around her waist. His brown eyes sparkling, "You almost set the smoke alarm off honey. I had to tell the firemen it was my daughter culinary skills trying to make smoked salmon."

Mum cracks a laugh at that last part, and dad smiles at me over her head.

I shake my head disbelieving, "You two are terrible."

"You're gonna miss us when you're on a college dorm. Just wait and see. We'll have you phoning home in no time."

"You wish."

"I know."

"I'll make sure to keep an eye out for any smoke signals in case you decide to try a different method of communication." My dad winks and mum snorts a laugh.

"Har, har, I forgot how to laugh. I'm gonna call for Chinese I'm starving." I say, making my way out of the kitchen, a smile tugging at my lips.

Gosh, I love them.

"No way," Comes mum's voice, "Get back here pretty lady, I'm gonna teach you how to cook a proper meal."

I let my head drop back with a groan.

"I don't cook on Sundays."

"Since when is that a rule?"

I consider it for a minute, "Huh...today?"

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