Six Feet Under

Chapter 16 //

Street Collins

6:40 A. M.

"Get your ass out of bed, Avery! There are chocolate chip and banana pancakes down here. Fresh off the grill."

Now I was interested in getting out of bed.

My mother was my second alarm. My first one was a legitimate machine. Although I commonly felt frustration because of my mom's lack of faith in me to get myself out of bed—she, as I was afraid to admit, lacked faith for a reason. I've never once in my life obeyed my 6 a.m. alarm. It just roared at me until I was driven into utter insanity, and I didn't even bother with the snooze button anymore in the unrealistic hopes that I'd actually listen to the repetitions. So I'd just turn it off.

Which put into effect my mother bleating my birth name at me like an unhappy sheep.

The exhausted walk down the carpeted steps was treacherous. But I eventually, hesitantly, made it into the kitchen; a landscape of an average school or work morning in the Collins' household.

My short statured mother was weaving in and out between my three brothers, holding a carton of uncapped orange juice in one hand and a dirty pan in the other—raising the objects high above their heads as to not bash them in. There was a gross, noisy ensemble of the sounds of raw eggs being scrambled, the sink faucet running, milk being gulped down several throats and the fridge opening and closing. A half-consumed, white ceramic bowl of chocolate Chex sat on the counter with an abandoned spoon swimming inside of it. The toaster popped a pair of inedibly burnt bread, and Jack chucked a raw egg at the side of Issac's head that burst upon contact.

"I just showered!" Issac winced against the raw yellow explosion.

Jack cackled bewitchingly. I ran my hand through my bedhead, inhaling a deep, disappointed sigh that longed desperately for my slumber.

"What are you all doing up so early?" I directed toward my brothers. I walked straight into the human stampede, forcing my little pathway through the crowd to the pancake grill.

"I'm forcing the boys to get up early so they can make themselves useful around here," my mom shouted over several sizzles that came from a variety of kitchen appliances. "We still have a lot of unpacking and organizing to do."

When I finally reached my landing place, the pancake grill—it was bare, except for a thin layer of grease, and a sparse amount of half-squished, melted chocolate chips.

"I thought you said there were pancakes," I said.

"Your brothers devoured them all."

I shrugged, half flicking, half rolling my eyes into the back of my head.

I pushed past my mother and Alex, clenching the handle of the fridge when I felt it. I pulled it open. The fridge was pretty bare, as we only went grocery shopping for a few essentials yesterday evening. Mostly breakfast foods to do us over for this morning. I grabbed the carton of icy milk and extracted it from the refrigerator. Upon the fridge's close, I placed the white milk carton on an empty spot on the counter, which was difficult to find—and lunged myself on top of the white marble counter, supporting myself by my knees. I was too short to reach the boxes of cereal on top of the freezer, so I needed a definite lift. The lack of friction on my silky pajama pants had me slipping around the counter, until I successfully grabbed the cardboard box of Frosted Mini Wheats.