Page 22 of Elusion

When I arrive back at the house, Johnny’s cooking bacon andeggs. I sit at the kitchen island and snag his plate as he turns around.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

He shrugs, returning to the stove to restart his breakfast. “I figured her not seeing me this morning would make her feel less awkward. She couldn’t even walk down the stairs last night.”

I pick up a piece of bacon while checking my phone. It’s almost eleven, and since most people are awake by now, I text Callie.

Good morning, beautiful.

She doesn’t reply by the time I finish my second breakfast of the day. Or after I’ve restrung my acoustic guitar. Still nothing when I wrap up my in-depth CD organization session. Shit. Last night’s text might have been a fluke. Her sanity suffered a momentary lapse. I chance another message.

I said, good morning, beautiful.

This time, I receive a response.

Hi.

Short, to the point, and very Callie. But then another message pops up.

I’m Cate.

Her little sister maybe? The picture in her room had a little girl in it, and her name starts with a C, like Callie and Connor. I have no idea how to estimate the age of a child, but she didn’t look more than five. Can five-year-olds text?

How old are you?I ask.

Six.

Can you even read? How are you texting?

Yes. The phone helps.

I scroll through the settings on my phone. She must use the voice-to-text function and the setting that reads messages. The wonders of the modern age are all around us.

Cate sends,What are you doing?

Talking to a six-year-old.

Connor’s playing basketball. I’m bored.

Gavin has claimed one of the couches in the living room as a napping spot, so I stretch out on the other. I wonder if Callie’s a sports fan. I could leverage my lacrosse days.

Cate continues to send messages. She’s funny. And as she makes known multiple times, bored. After a while, a picture pops up from her. Her eyes are wide, and she displays a maniacal grin. Cute kid. I imagine Callie looked exactly like her at that age. I do what any mature adult would do and send an equally ridiculous picture with my cheeks puffed out and eyes crossed.

We exchange a few of those before I ask her if Callie knows how to make funny faces. Less than a minute later, she sends me a picture. I stare at the beautiful—no, stunning—girl on my screen. If I thought the rare glimpses of Callie’s smile were impressive, then consider me blown away by the real thing. Her entire face lights up, her eyes shining the most brilliant blue.

Another picture replaces the first. Callie pouts with her bottom lip stuck out and her forehead scrunched. I laugh as the images continue coming, revealing a new side of her. One where she doesn’t hold back her emotions even if she exaggerates them for the sake of entertaining a six-year-old.

I start noticing things about her. On her left temple, she has a small indentation, similar to a chicken pox scar. Darker blue rings encompass her pupils. Her bottom lip appears slightly fuller than her top.

Callie’s name pops up on the screen, and I already know what to expect when I answer.

“Jordan,” a small voice says through a burst of giggling, “this is a very important call from the doctor.”

I gasp. “Oh no, Dr. Cate. Whatever is the problem?”

Gavin sits straight up on the couch, a concerned look on his face. “Doctor?”

I dismissively shake my head and go to the kitchen, so I don’t further disturb his nap. A thorough explanation of my diagnosis ensues. Luckily, I’ll make a full recovery because Sad Feet is curable with lots of rest and a blue slushie. Once I know I’ll live, we move on to the important stuff, like her classroom’s new seating arrangement. Life as a first grader is both thrilling and taxing, and between school and her friends, the poor thing barely keeps up.

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