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CLARA WATCHED AS HER MOTHER prepared their dinner with precise precision. The woman started with the chicken, separating the fat from the meat, and covering it in spices before placing it on a sizzling pan. She moved on to the vegetables, cutting them each quickly without skimming the edges of her fingers. Clara had always liked to watch, rather than to help. Cooking was not something in her skill set — cutting herself or burning the meal nearly every time she tried. The elder woman checked one side of the chicken by raising it up, and then flipping it to the other.
She looked up at her daughter from the kitchen, smiling. "Could you prepare the table for me, sweetheart? We'll be having guests."
Guests. The girl had almost forgotten that the Parker family had been invited for dinner tonight. Typically every week her mother would invite others over — mostly to gossip, but also to try out new recipes she had gotten in her newly bought cookbooks. Tonight, it was garlic chicken with green beans and broccoli.
Clara nodded at her mother, hopping off of the stool and grabbing the forks and knives from their drawer. Hopefully six pairs would be enough for everyone there — her, her father and mother, Mr. Parker, Mrs. Parker and their youngest son Samuel. The Parker's had an eldest son, too, whose name was Theo. But they never brought him anywhere. It wasn't like he was home to go with them, anyway.
"Mom, you're still wearing your scrubs," the brunette pointed out, glancing at the light purple clothing. Her mother worked long shifts at the hospital. And when she came home, she often forgot to take them off and replace them with something more casual. "Wouldn't want them to see you in your work clothes," she joked.
Her mom looked down skeptically, faking a dramatic gasp. "I'll have to go change. Set the table and keep an eye on the chicken." The woman rushed out of the kitchen, running up the stairs that led to everyones bedrooms.
The girl set the table hurriedly, placing all the utensils down before moving onto the plates and napkins. The chicken would burn if she wasn't fast enough.
Once that was done, Clara returned to the kitchen. The girl grabbed the spatula, checking both sides of the chicken. From what her mother had taught her many, many times before, it looked done. She picked it up with the utensil, placing it on a platter with the other cooked chicken breasts.
Her mother returned shortly after that — dressed in dark washed jeans and a white blouse. Clara looked down at her outfit, which was only her ripped denim shorts and a hoodie from her school. "Should I change?" The brunette asked, tugging at the hem of her hoodie. "I look like a slob."
"Only if you want to."
The Parkers would be here any minute. Clara chose not to. Coming down late for dinner would be seen by them as rude. "I'll just stay in this, I guess."
