Almost Friends

Chapter 3- Elizabeth

Chapter Three

Elizabeth

Back in Business

"... I know they say you can't go home again ..." I hum along with Miranda Lambert as one of her songs drifts my way via the Country Music Channel in the den. Happiness settles down on me and I smile to myself.

I haven't been this relaxed in forever. Summer was hell. Not just because of the heat, but the waiting... I'd been waiting for Mom to break the inevitable news about our financial problems. Ever since I was little, she and Dad waited until the last second to tell me that "I wouldn't be able to go to camp with my friends" or that "Christmas would be a little tight this year." I guess Mom forgot that things are different now. Since Dad got locked up a few years back, I'd been in charge of paying the water bill, which meant access to our checking account, which also meant that I'd become aware of how much money we had ... or didn't have. Dad was released this summer, but I still have access to the account. So, for the past three months I've been staring at our dwindling balance, waiting for it to go from single digits to negative numbers, and then waiting for Mom to break the news that she and Dad wouldn't be able to afford to put me in cheerleading and dance this schoolyear. And then it happened yesterday- she finally broke the news. I knew it was coming- but it didn't stop me from being devastated. But just thirty minutes ago, all of that changed- Mom called and said she's good for the money, cheerleading and dance are a go!

I whistle along with Miranda as I whisk flour, seltzer, and baking soda in the large green bowl we inherited from Grandma. My thoughts drifting to her, I glance at the bread machine on the kitchen island behind me.

Back when I was barely tall enough to see the top of the counter, Grandma taught me to bake bread in that little machine. Mom says we were a funny sight: Grandma rolling around the kitchen in her wheelchair, giving me instructions which I, tiny and jumping everywhere in random splays of hyperactivity, followed to the teeth. I had the energy and Grandma had the know-how, so I became her hands and legs.

"... I thought that maybe I could find myself ..." Miranda croons from the television and I return my attention to the yellowish batter I'm going to dip my shrimp into. It's whisked just enough.

Wiping my hands on my blue and pink floral apron—also inherited from Grandma—I check the oil on the stove. It's hot enough.

I coat my shrimp and broccoli with batter, my thoughts lingering on Grandma. They often do. She died five years ago, and not a day goes by that I don't think about her.

I set the battered broccoli aside and ever-so-carefully place each piece of shrimp into the sizzling oil.

Cooking makes me feel closer to her. She taught me everything I know about the kitchen, including the fact that it's the world's best stress-reliever. I can still see her sitting in her wheelchair, her long gray hair pulled up into an oddly youthful looking ponytail as she smiled up at me and said, "Know how to cook and know the best kind of therapy."

She was right.

I watch the battered shrimp crackle and pop under the oil, each piece morphing into a beautiful bite.

If Grandma could see me now I think she'd be proud. Sure, I'm still me; I'm sarcastic to a fault and I get into one too many fights. But I'm rocking a 3.7 GPA and I'm in almost all honors classes (which, when you go to a school like SLH, simply means they stick you in a class above your grade level and call it honors), and the last time I talked to our guidance counselor, she said I was on track for at least two scholarships—one for dance, if I decide to go that route.