"do things for people. not because of who you are or what they do in return, but because of who you are"
❀
Gemma
I am planted behind the counter, my flour-caked hands whisking away at a bowl of batter with ferocious velocity. Music crackles to life from my mom's old record player as I mix.
If I knew you were coming I'd've baked a cake
Baked a cake
Baked a cake
A ding sounds from the oven timer.
If I knew you were coming I'd've baked a cake
How-ja do, how-ja do, how-ja do
I flip around swiftly and with haste, prying the oven open, a mitt on my hand.
My apron has done little to protect me from the chaos that is the kitchen. The flour bag tipped over long ago, and stray chocolate chips can be found all over. Salt, sugar, and egg shell remnants are splayed across the counter. The air smells thickly of vanilla extract and freshly baked goods.
I glance at my surroundings and sigh heavily, rolling my head towards the ceiling in dismay.
Every crevice of the kitchen island and counter are smothered in a surplus of muffins. An impossible abundance of muffins.
Mountains and mountains of chocolate chip muffins, overflowing and practically spilling off the edge of the countertops.
Backing into the refrigerator tentatively, I take in the scene before my eyes, which now appears more like the aftermath of a conquered battle than a well-used kitchen.
What a mess.
The sound of my phone ringing next to the record player grabs my attention, and I wipe my hands on my jeans in a hurry.
Nice one, Gemma.
I quickly attend to the needle in anticipation, stopping the song in its tracks. Hope gushes into me at the off chance that the call could be from Anthony.
It was only the day before today that I had texted him.
Well, stupidly double texted him, and sent him my address.
If only he didn't have a flip phone, then maybe this whole project wouldn't be such a torment to deal with. We could have had the option to facetime instead of uselessly trying to meet up.
I open one eye, checking the Caller ID.
Sister, it reads.
Tara's calling.
"Hey, what are you up to?" she asks.
I return to my post at the counter, placing yet another trey of batter in the oven and beginning a new and extremely unnecessary batch.
"Oh, nothing much. You?"
Tara is silent for a moment and I take the opportunity to combine the flour with a precise amount of sugar.
YOU ARE READING
Tell Me No Lies
أدب المراهقينGemma Ledbetter always knew who she was. A dedicated student, a loving daughter, a loyal friend. The girl that keeps her closet color coded, who's always wiping the flour off her hands, whose nose is most often stuck in a book. But when her mother...
