teapot flowers

part 3

Olivia Walters, on the walk home.

I woke to the jolt of the subway car as the doors opened and the speakers played some incoherent recording in Portuguese. I am always like this when I wake up, so groggy I can barely understand English, let alone Portuguese. Peter always knows better than to try to ask me any questions in the morning.

I slipped my backpack on and rubbed my eyes, trying to focus on where I was when I caught a glimpse of the station sign, Barra da Tijuca. I hopped through the doors and walked swiftly up the stairs and out the exit. It was a bit safer to be out and about after dark in this neighborhood than in the middle of the city, especially because of the police that regularly patrols the beach.

My home was only a block away; I could see it from where I was. But even though I wanted to get home soon, I couldn't help but stop and sit on the beach and watch the moon dance on the water. Ever since I was young I have always loved the water, but I missed the calm freshwater lake at my grandparents' place where we used to visit every summer most of all.

It was Grandpa that taught me how to fish out on that old dock; we would laugh and he would listen to my troubles and give me solemn advice. Oh, what I wouldn't have given at that moment to be out on the dock getting some solemn advice from that old man. He would say "pluck up little cricket, things aren't as bad as all that." Then he would dry my tears and pat my head.

After my biological father died and mom remarried I almost never saw them. I loved the summers I spent at their cabin, watching the water. Everything was simple and peaceful, and the time always seemed to slip through my fingers; before I knew it, summer was over.

I noticed the light on my front porch flicker on and off. I knew that was Peter's sign that he saw me and it was time to come home. Today the flickering seemed a bit more violent than usual. "He must be impatient tonight," I mumbled to myself. I was glad I had already prepared dinner for him, seeing as it was already 10:30 by the time I got home.

I made my way to the house kicking the sand as I walked along when I remembered the wallet. I took it from my pocket and slipped out the identification card. It was that foreigner's for sure: blond hair, brown eyes, it said his name was James Williams, he was born in England and was 17 years old. Hmmm, his birthday is February 21, the same as Peter.

Just then Peter came out the front door with his arms crossed in a very non-childish manner. "Irmã," he said. (that's what he always calls me, it means sister) "onde você estava?" he questioned. "what do you mean 'where have I been?' you know I was with those girls at the mall." I replied strolling past him through the door and taking off my shoes and my backpack. "você falou que iria chegar meia hora atriz!" He said following me back inside.

"I know I am late, but it was unavoidable," I said continuing down the hall and opening the fridge. The food I prepared was in the same place I left it, not even opened. "Peter, you didn't eat the food I made for supper?" I asked. "I wasn't hungry." he said carelessly, "and stop avoiding the subject." Apparently he had decided to speak English now; he had a bad habit of switching back and forth between languages.

"What subject?" I asked, pulling the food out for myself. "The reason you are so late," he answered. "I was, he um, well, I was held up at the metro, that's all...I missed the first train and had to wait for the next," which was technically the truth.

I opened the untouched stroganoff and bitterly scooped out a serving to microwave. "Here I went out of my way to make this home-cooked meal for you, and yet you didn't even take a bite," I said, glancing over my shoulder to see his face. He seemed unmoved. "Not to mention the money I used from our monthly budget, ah well. But you know, I can't help but think of those poor kids in Africa, what they wouldn't give for just a bowl of this humble stroganoff," I said in a very sorrowful way.

But my little brother just hopped on top of the barstool and plopped his elbows on the edge of the marble counter and rested his head in his hands. "What Africa has to do with me, I have no idea, but if you feel so bad about it why don't you send my portion to them?" he said with sarcasm dripping from his mouth. I sighed as I pushed the minute button on the microwave.

"Oh yeah, another one of your plants died." Peter said coldly as he picked up one of his school books to read. "Aww man, was it the marigold pot? I thought I might have watered it too much." I said with a sigh, then I licked my spoon clean and then let it rest on my bottom lip, just waiting for my food to be done.

"Did you at least finish your homework?" I asked, grabbing the bowl from the microwave after it dinged. "Well, I, I finished most everything..." he said with a sly grin. "Let me guess, all but one subject? And now that I am home you want help..." he nodded vigorously, and all I could do was give in and rub his scruffy brown hair. "All right, I'll help you while I eat."

I sat next to him with his textbook. "For a smart kid like you, I would think you could do your English grammar yourself," I said, plowing into my food." Irmã, I have told you before, I am no good at English." Peter said, giving a pouty face. "Alright alright, save the puppy eyes for your teacher. Let's start at the beginning of this page."

End of chapter 3.

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♡ see u next month.