@Robertopancake: A Story About a Boy

Chapter Six

Robertopancake ( . Y . ) ← Tits, man.

4:32 AM - 28 Dec 2014

Robertopancake #nowplaying Der Kommisar—Falco

4:39 AM - 28 Dec 2014

Robertopancake 4:44 AM. (4 is my favorite number)

4:44 AM - 28 Dec 2014

Robertopancake #nowplaying John, I'm Only Dancing—David Bowie

4:46 AM - 28 Dec 2014

The holidays have me massively agitated this year. The big blow-up with Deenie yesterday left a bad taste in my mouth, and being around this place isn't really doing wonders for my mood. I woke up around ten-thirty to Suicide Machines playing in my earbuds and my alarm buzzing in the background. My mom would have probably come and yelled at me to shut it off, but she and Danica have magically disappeared from the house and Pat has been at work for hours.

Before I even get dressed, I check my phone. No texts from Deenie. Just to be old-school, I check my email too. Nothing. It's a cold day in hell when I don't even feel like getting on Twitter, but somehow I just don't. No one can say anything that will interest me today and I have nothing to say that's worth the time it takes to type it anyway.

A door slams downstairs. "Robin?"

"Whaaaaaat?" I say in a loud voice that reeks of sarcasm and bottled-up, misdirected anger.

"Come down here, please." My mother drops her giant, heavy purse on the counter in the kitchen and it sets off a minor earthquake in our neighborhood. She has enough tubes of lipstick in there to do the make-up of ten thousand drag queens, and enough keys on her key ring to qualify her as an honorary school janitor.

I loathe being called upon to bound down the stairs on command like a golden retriever, but there is exasperation in her deep sigh, and I imagine her leaning on the island with one hand, rapping her acrylic nails on the counter as she waits. I shuffle down there barefoot and see that I'm not wrong: the nails are tapping away, the eyebrows are raised with impatience.

"So," she says, eyeing my pajama bottoms and bare chest with disapproval. "Just wake up?"

"Yeah." I run a hand over my hairless, un-muscled chest. "Where's Danica?"

"At Ava's." She pushes away from the counter and walks to the fridge, pulling it open. "Want me to make you something to eat?"

"Seriously? You mean you'd actually cook? For me?" I am caught off guard.

"You say that like I never raise a finger around here." She spins around.

Whoooaaaa. This is not a road I want to go down. "I never said that. I just meant you don't really cook much anymore."

She slams the refrigerator door. "Well, sue me for wanting to cook you something, Robin. I was just trying to be nice."

Her sharp, twisty mood change perplexes me in my still-groggy state. "What's up, Mom?"

Her eyes slide over to the window that looks out on a boxy, minimally-landscaped backyard. "I talked to your dad last night." Which explains everything. He's notorious for rattling her cage even though they've been divorced for years and almost never speak.

"Oh."

"He'd like you to come for a visit, and—"

"Wait, he wants me to come to Florida?" I can barely contain my excitement. "When?"