Famous in a Small Town(16)

Sophie:





ten


I babysat for Cadence and Harper on Tuesday night.

Cadence decided she was going to “help” me take care of Harper for the evening, which mostly consisted of her giving a running commentary of Harper’s thoughts and opinions.

Changing Harper’s diaper: “She doesn’t like that.”

Filling Harper’s tray: “She’s extra hungry tonight.”

Getting Harper in her pajamas: “She wants to wear the purple duck ones instead.”

“Those are in the laundry.”

Cadence’s eyes were solemn: “She’s okay with that.”

The girls were in bed—wearing clean pajamas—and I was finally cleaning up from dinner when the back door opened slightly.

I turned at the sink, a pot in hand.

“This is me announcing myself,” August said through the gap. “You know, in case you go into intruder alert mode.”

I smiled. “No lasagna will die tonight on your behalf.”

He stepped inside, and I turned back to the sink to finish scrubbing.

“What was for dinner?”

“Mac and cheese.” I still had Harper’s high chair tray to clean, all orange-crusted.

“The stove kind or the microwave kind?”

“The stove kind,” I said, and suddenly he was right behind me, reaching past to grab a paper towel from the roll above the sink. He folded it up and stuck it briefly under the flow of water, and then went over to the high chair.

“That’s like a hundred times better than the microwave kind, you know,” he said as he began to scrub the tray. It would be faster to wash it in the sink, but it probably doesn’t do much good to critique the nice thing someone is doing, so I just watched for a moment. He was wearing the same shirt he had on the night of the lasagna encounter, and I wondered briefly if it was his favorite shirt, or if he wore it specifically on Tuesdays, or if his closet was lined with rows of that exact shirt, like a cartoon character.

I went back to rinsing the pot.

“No leftovers tonight, sorry.” I had horked down the rest of the mac and cheese while Cadence paused her description of Harper’s inner monologue to tell me stories about dance class. She kept hopping out of her chair to show me moves, gravitating back to eat a forkful of food and then returning to the center of the kitchen, like a moth bouncing in and out of a porch light.

“No problem. Not hungry anyway.”

I finished at the sink and watched August give the high chair one more swipe. He tossed the paper towel in the trash and then turned to me. For a moment we were both just standing there.

“Do you have, like … stuff to do?” he said finally. “While the girls are asleep?”

“Yeah, I usually go through Kyle and Heather’s room. Try on all their clothes, roll around in their bed. That kind of thing.”

He looked at me for a split second and then grinned. “I meant, like, watch TV or something.”

“I usually do homework. But no homework now, so … maybe TV. Or a book or something.” I looked at him. “What about you?”

“Probably just gonna hang out.”

“Ah.” We could do that, I almost said, before realizing it wasn’t an invitation. Then I blinked. “Where’s your room?”

“We’re standing in it.”

“This is the kitchen.”

His eyes shone. “After hours, it’s my room.”

“What?”

He moved over to the window seat off the back of the kitchen, in the little alcove by the back door. It was a spot you’d sit in to take off your shoes, next to Kyle’s boots and a pile of Cadence’s sneakers.

For the first time, I noticed the quilt folded up on top of a pillow, shoved in the corner of the alcove. I watched as August sat, leaning against the wall and drawing his legs up.

I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen. “That’s where you sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“For real?”

“What?” I must have looked alarmed, because he shook his head. “It’s fine. It’s great, actually. It even opens up.” He stood, picked up the cushion, and lifted the windowsill. “I can keep my stuff in there.”

A folded pile of clothes lay inside—no duplicates of that shirt, which ruled out the cartoon-character theory—alongside a scrunched-up backpack, a few other odds and ends.

The window wasn’t nearly long enough, though. August wasn’t hugely tall—shorter than Terrance by an inch or two, and Dash by more. But he’d still have to curl up to sleep, under the pink-and-white quilt with rabbits on it.

“It’s Cady’s,” he said, a little sheepish when he saw me looking. “She lent it to me.”

This was a big deal, and I wasn’t sure if he even realized it. Cadence wouldn’t sleep under anything but the bunny quilt for a good six months or so. But that didn’t factor at this moment.

“Why don’t you sleep on the couch?” I said.

“I’d be in the way. No one needs the window.”

“But it’s a window.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s … a window.”

“Yes. And that’s a door. That’s a stove. Those are shoes.”