Love Me Crazy

3. We Just Gotta Get Along

"Hey…you want pancakes?"

"You're going to make pancakes for me?"

"Yup…just like old times."

I smiled. That last time my mother had made pancakes for me was when she sucked my one month old hamster named Tommy into our vacuum cleaner. That had happened three years ago, so this was a joyous occasion.

I was shuffling around the house in my slippers, wondering where I had put my biology notebook. I always loved to eat breakfast on Saturday with homework. Somehow, in a strange way, it made me feel accomplished.

"It was kind of convenient moving here at the end of the week, wasn't it? You only had to go to school on Friday."

I sighed at my mothers comment. "I still have to go Monday…"

"I know that," she said, flipping two of the huge cakes that were heating in the old skillet.

My eyes were grazing over some of my notes when out of the dark walked John. His hair was a tangled mess and his face looked even worse. But my mother loved him. And if you could love a guy who looked like John did right now, you were in serious love.

"Hey hun…" he said in a disgruntled voice, "Hey May May…"

I smiled as John took a seat next to me. He called me that ever since his second date with my mom. I don't know why but I liked it.

"You look like a hobo," I whispered, flipping my notebook page.

"And you look like a deranged sumo wrestler…nice top knot."

I giggled lowly, realizing that my bun was looking rather crazy. My pink, oversized robe didn't help any.

"Alright, pancakes!" announced my mom, harshly placing two huge plates in front of me and John.

"Looks good Margaret…you should make pancakes more often," he murmured.

"And you should buy me more stuff…hmm, two things that are never going to happen."

John smirked as he stabbed his fork into the nearest fluffy cake. I, on the other hand, took my time to cut each piece in and orderly fashion before dousing all the tarts in syrup.

"Oliver will probably want some," I murmured in the silent room.

"That's the problem," my mom answered with an irritated voice, "All that boy does is eat. I tell you, I will die before I fill his-"

My mother's last, insignificant words were interrupted by the loud doorbell. It was much louder than the one at our last home.

"Hey munchkin, get that," John said, looking at me.

"No," I replied, laughing.

"Mary," my mother said as she placed a firm hand on her hip.

I rolled my eyes as I plopped off my chair and walked down the skinny hallway that led to the front door. Kicking a small, moving box out of the way, I unlocked the door and slowly swung it open.

"No thank you," I murmured quickly, knowing that it was probably a salesman, ready to attack new meat in the neighborhood.