Page 7 of Mistlefoe
“That’s right, baby! I got it too.” He throws his hands in the air and hoots.
I won’t tell him because I’m not half as strong as I pretend, but I’m thankful to have him in my life too. I don’t know what I’d have done without him, and it’s high time I finally do something good for him.
I’ll save this place, his legacy, if it’s the last damn thing I ever do.
CHAPTER 4
SIERRA
“How’s it going?” I pace back and forth across the living room, where I got exiled to after driving my parents bananas with my worrying.
“Let’s see,” Mom says with a sigh. “We have tried turning off and back on, unplugging and plugging, restarting the program, keying in the password again.”
“And don’t forget restarting the wifi router,” Dad adds.
“Nothing?” The word comes out as a whine from my throat.
“Nope.” Mom pops the P. “Sorry, Sierrita. The issue must be on Grammie’s end.”
I drop on the couch like a lump. “But it’s Thanksgiving. Dinner’s not complete without a chat with Grammie. She was going to tell me about the new crochet stitch she’s been learning.” Ugh, I know I’m being a brat, but I was really looking forward to casually breaking the news to the three of them at the same time that we’ll be able to bring Grammie over for Christmas.
“Let me text my brother down there once more,” Mommumbles this as she picks up her cellphone from the table. “But if it doesn’t get through again, you have to give up.”
Giving up isn’t in my vocabulary, but we’ve been trying for an hour and it’s almost getting to the time when I agreed to visit Rachel and her son, Adrian. I’ll just try a quick chat with Grammie later tonight if the connection finally works.
Grunting, I pull myself up from the couch and head back to the kitchen. Mom looks up from writing a text and I give her a kiss on her cheek. Dad immediately points at his, and I have no choice but to drop him one too. “Thank you for trying, you guys.”
“Is that all you’re thankful for?” Dad teases.
“No, I’m also thankful for Nutella.”
Mom shakes her head at me, her expression awed that she birthed such a little pest. “And here I thought you’d be thankful for having the best parents in the world, but no. Not only I have to be jealous that you love my mother more than me, but also Nutella?”
Her eyes twinkle with barely contained laughter and I keep a solemn expression as I say, “I’m sorry but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
I don’t really have to tell my parents that I love them, it’s clear in a million ways. Like how I don’t make fun of Dad’s baseball team that keeps losing every season, or how I don’t complain about Mom’s rice even though it’s always soggy. I’m busting my ass to fly Grammie over not just because I want to see her so bad, but also because I know Mom does too. She hasn’t hugged her own mother in almost ten years. And if I make that earnest wish come true for Mom, Dad will be over the moon too.
That happiness is what I yearned to see on their faces tonight, but I’ve been foiled by distance again.
“I bet you like your friend better than you like us.” Mom waves her hand. “Go to her. Go.”
“I bet she likes her job better than us,” Dad adds before taking a swig of his beer.
“Sure.” I drawl the word as I leave the kitchen and start putting on my scarf and coat. “I’ll be back in two hours, tops. Behave while I’m gone.”
“As if. We’re gonna thrash this place while you’re gone.” Dad chuckles.
Mom pops out of the kitchen for a second. “Drive safe! And also bring some of that pie Rachel bakes every year.”
“‘Kay, bye.” I grab my keys and am out of the house before they can give me any more crap.
The whole street is lined by small one- and two-bedroom houses like ours, packed with working families that can’t afford nicer digs, but still keeps theirs in tip top shape. Even though it’s only Thanksgiving, we already have the nativity scene set up and glowing in the yard, surrounded by more lights than necessary. The whole block is populated by the same type of overly festive people, houses decked with tinsel, garlands, bows, snowmen, blown up gingerbread cookies, and more lights than an airport tarmac.
I turn on our trusty Ford pickup and the radio blares a Christmas classic from Nat “King” Cole. I raise the volume and sing off tune the whole way to Rachel’s. She also lives on this side of town with the rest of us poors, so it takes all but ten minutes to arrive—and that’s because I caught a long red light.
Rachel opens her front door before I’m even out of the car and shouts, “How did it go?”
“It didn’t.” I slam the door shut and stomp over to her, exhaling clouds of condensation out of my mouth. “Connection was bad so I’ll have to save the news for next time.”
