STRAY KIDS.

XXXII. PANCAKES

( STRAY KIDS! )
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.
❝ pancakes ❞

   ELI IS STARING up at the ash tree, her head thrown back inside the helmet. the weight of it feels good. maybe she should've worn one at the funeral. who knew that headgear can be comforting in its own way?

   she's trying to play it cool, but it's not every day she lets someone walk into her past like this. often times, people say the wrong thing, even if they mean well. some are tempted to pity her. others are made uncomfortable. peter just handed her a shiny red helmet. maybe he understands. he has his own ghosts. she wonders if he'll ever talk about them with her. that's the thing with him. he seems really open and warm, but he's always got a front ready when stuff gets too emotional. a friendly front, but it's a front all the same. they're two sides of the same coin.

   "do you ever think about," peter starts tentatively, staring stonily in the distance, "what you'd say to her if you saw her again?"

     eli blows air through her nostrils. "all the damn time. i have a whole list. sometimes i even dole out accusations. like, hey mom, did you really have to go for a run on christmas eve? you couldn't wait until after the holidays?"

  peter nods with a small smile. "i sometimes blame him too."

   eli's ears perk up. she tries not to let her interest show. she keeps her eyes on the bare branches above.

  but it seems that's the most he's going to say about his uncle. it's a little unfair that she unloaded all this stuff on him and he's going to keep a tight lid on it. she knows she can't force these things, but patience has never been one of her virtues. eli wants to open people up like tuna cans and prod inside with a fork. in a totally respectful way, of course.

  she knocks into him gently and he knocks back, their bodies colliding. it's a little awkward this time since she's still wearing the helmet and she gets pretty close to head–butting him.

  "well, i don't just think about talking to her," eli adds with a forlorn sigh. "i also fantasize about, like, gathering all the christmas shoes DVDs in the tri–state area and going to town on them with a hammer."

  peter snorts. "i bet she'd approve."

  "oh yeah. i got my destructive streak from her."

  in more than one way, she'd like to add. her mother was a moody, tempestuous creature who often gave her dad hell. he still stuck it out because he loved her deeply, but how far can you stretch that feeling before it loses meaning? is she the same kind of difficult? is she worth sticking out for?

   she won't ever say these things out loud, because that would mean losing street credibility, but they sometimes haunt her. in this new world of aliens and superheroes and powers which bend the laws of physics, is it even worth thinking about something as petty as "will you hate me when i don't wash the dishes?"

   she shakes her head. "do you feel like pancakes? i feel like pancakes."

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