The way the ocean swells

Chapter 3- Kitchen and the Clay

My mom sits at the counter, her shoulders hunched, her eyes closed tight. The tan lines around her eyes wrinkle and her hand hold onto her coffee mug with a firmness. I can tell she's annoyed. I've been gone for too long.

I sit the loaf on the counter, "I have the bread," I say evenly.
With her eyes still closed she says, "I didn't realize it took a hour to get bread from the shops five minutes away."
I sigh, "Well, I always go for a run, like you want me to."
My mom opens her eyes, showing the brilliant green inside them, "And yet, in those instances, you're always back for breakfast at seven. It's seven fortyfive."
"I was hanging out with Pete and the others."
Her expression softens. I know she likes when I hang out with the guys, just like dad, "I know... It's just that Tristan was asking for French toast this morning. I was trusting you to help out."
"Sorry... anything I can do to help now?"
"Just call him down. He wants to help make them as well."

French toast with grained bread. That sounds just as nasty as the fried seaweed that they sell at the markets from time to time. Still, in order to keep on the good side (for now), I walk up to the stairs and yell his name.

"Tristan! Time for breakfast. Tristan!"

     A small head with a mop of unruly brown hair pops out from the square door on the ceiling. It's my little brother Tristan. He give me a sly smile and opens the trapdoor all the way. Around him in the back, I see bits of brown mud spattered around him. I look closer and my fists clench; he's been messing around with my clay.

"Tristan Adrian Whitristle!" I yell, "How many times have I told you? Clay is not a toy! Moms going to hear about this!"

     Tristan sticks his tongue at me. Carefully, he turns his back to me and starts his descent down the wooden, ladder like stairs. Once he's down, he grabs the cord connected to the trapdoor and pulls it closed.

"Yeah Kezeee," he smirks, "I play with your clay!"

      He runs past me and into the kitchen. Furious, I head after him. In the kitchen, he grabs the bread and tugs in mom's shirt, "Food! I want French toast."
"Mom," I say in a stern voice, "Tristan has been touching my-"
"Not right now," Mom says in a tired voice, "I'm helping your brother with something."
"Mom this is important! Tristan's been touching my clay!"
Mom blinks and rubs her eyes, "Tristan is this true?"
Tristan gives an innocent shrug, "It was an accident."
"And what do you say to Kenzie?"
Tristan smirks before saying, "I'm sorry Kezee."
Mom smiles, "Good boy."
"Mom," I say annoyed, "That doesn't help bring back my clay!"
"Go see what you can scavenge out of the bits," my mom says, her attention now averted towards making the French toast.

I grumble and hesitantly walk away to the attic. I can almost feel Tristan's smirk bearing down on the back of my head, but I don't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he won. Instead, I leave the kitchen and walk up the unpolished wood steps up to the attic and pull of the string to let me in. Once inside, I feel a hot breeze hit against me. The one room attic is the most uninsulated portion of our house. It also happens to be Tristan's bedroom. Funny enough, when we first moved into the house ten years ago, right when he was born and I was five, I told Mom that I could have a brother only if I could sleep in the attic (yes, I know, I was a little brat back then). I'm glad Mom took my word for a grain of salt because during the night, Tristan has to take all the blankets in the house and throw them on his bed just to keep warm. Not that I feel bad for him.

I look around for any chunks of clay that aren't dried up or mushed in with any other pieces of dust and toys from his floor (he has a habit of being messy). Just as I suspected, there's not one bit of untouched clay. In the time it took for me to leave the house and go for a run, he's obliterated all my clay and tainted it. That boy never ceases to amaze me. Not in a good way, but that's pretty impressive.

I stomp across the room and climb down the stairs. I walk into the kitchen where Tristan is at the counter eating the foul seeded French toast, "Mom! Tristan ruined all the clay! There's none left!" Hot tears spark in my eyes. Clay wasn't cheap around here and I payed for it using my own money from car washing.

Mom turns around, spatula in her hand, "what do you want me to do Kenzie? I'm busy right now."She turns back to the stove, "Why don't you just get some more?"
"Because it's expensive," I gasp, "Remember? I had to clean Mrs Liberiov's car, which smelled like cat pee!"
Mom pauses, remembering that day, "well it's good character practice to want something and work towards it. I'll see what I can find on the market but the rest is up to you. Maybe you should hide that stuff. It's messy."
"Mom," I say, "I did hide it. It was in my closet on the top shelf surrounded by plastic bags and books. Tristan must've climbed up or something."
Moms shoulders hunch. I can tell she just wants this conversation to be over, "Look, Kenzie. Do you really think Tristan would've gone into your room, climbed up the closet, moved all the books and then bring to his room and smash it into pieces? All by himself?"
I gesture to his room, "See for yourself."
"Kenzie... not right now. I'll se when I'm done."

      I grumble. Tristan slipped away again. I know Mom won't bother to go see the carnage Tristan has caused. The hot tears spike again and I turn away, slowly, and walk off. Tristan's smirk tickles my neck but I don't look back. I don't really want to be in the house right now.

"I'm going out," I call over my shoulder.
"Come back for lunch," Mom calls back.
"Sure," I mumble, almost sarcastically.

    I open the front door and close it behind me, listening to the sound of voices and the sizzling pan disappear.