How Do I Make You Feel

Oregon Skies

It was lightly raining in the town of Burkon, placed in the middle of the state of Oregon. Rain pattered of the roofs of the many houses. Inside one house, number 82, with brick walls and stained wood panels, the lights glowing brightly and shining through the big, glass windows, sat a boy in his bedroom with light brown hair, messy and flowing around his ears. His black rimmed glasses rested on his pale nose, surrounded by a few freckles that barely showed. His navy blue polo button up sleeves, with only one buttoned up, wrapped around his arms that rested on his desk. His arm was quickly writing, with a dull pencil, into a brown leather journal, scribbling fast and taking a few minutes to think.

"Emmitt!" called a woman's voice.

The boy, named Emmitt, kept writing, ignoring his name that had been called.

"Emmitt Jackson Hendrix," yelled a voice, now sounding annoyed.

"Yeah, mom, one minute!" Emmitt yelled back, sighing. He closed his journal and left it on the desk, getting up to leave his room.

The woman's voice belonged to Isabelle Hendrix, Emmitt's mother, with her blonde hair flowing down her shoulders, her roots dark and showing. She stood at the stove, stirring at a pot. Her husband John, with his scruffy dark brown hair and his facial hair just starting to grow again, was sitting at the table, writing something down next to a calculator. Maggie, Emmitt's ten year old sister, stood with her arms crossed, leaning on the counter, her freckled face tied up with a frown. "Emmitt should set the table tonight," she said grumpily.

"No, Maggie, he did it last night. Your turn," Mrs. Hendrix said, grabbing the salt and shaking it into the pot. She looked up to see Emmitt enter the kitchen. "You can do something to help. You know what night it is."

"Oh, I totally forgot that she was coming tonight," Emmitt said, passing by Maggie to open the cutlery drawer. "I'll do the forks and spoons if you do the plates."

"I like doing the forks," Maggie said, her brown ponytail flying around and she turned towards Emmitt. "You know that I like doing the forks."

"Then do the forks, for all I care," Emmitt sighed, passing the cutlery to Maggie.

"Hey, you two. Teamwork makes the dream work," Mr. Hendrix called out, barely looking up from his scribbled notes. 

"Your dad's right," Mrs. Hendrix agreed, shaking her head. "We don't want any fighting for when Ms. Shepard comes by. Work together, please."

This was a household tradition, that started way back when Maggie was born. The Hendrix family had lived in Burkon, Oregon for about seventeen years, and they had met their neighbour across the street who had recently moved in. Isabelle and Daphne, which was Ms. Shepard's first name, had hit it off instantly and talked a lot about their past, like adults do. Since Daphne lived on her own, Mrs. Hendrix invited Daphne over every Tuesday and Saturday to enjoy a dinner with the family. And they had never stopped doing it since.

"I've always wondered mom," Maggie started, as Emmitt started dishing out plates on to the dining room table. "Why does Ms. Shepard come over so often?"

"It's only two days of each week, darling," Mrs. Hendrix smiled, giving a small chuckle. "Me and your dad are just being good neighbours. It's called hospitality, right John?"

"Hospitality. Yes," Mr. Hendrix said, nodding.

"I get that, but why does she live alone?" asked Maggie. "Doesn't she have a husband or something?"

"Not everyone does. That's also none of our business, Miss Maggs." She turned away from the stove, turning it down to a simmer, patting Maggie's head.