That thought is the only thing that gets me through the remainder of the drive to my house. We pull up in front of my little one-story home, and I take a second to look at it with fresh eyes. I try to see it like Audrey might. It’s small, sure. But the lawn is well kept and my mother’s flower garden is in full bloom. She keeps hanging plants along the front porch, and she’s just had the front door repainted crimson red. It may not be the most glorious place, but it’s ours.
The smell of chicken fried steak hits me as soon as I open the door, and I almost fall to my knees. I’m ravenous, and there is nothing better than my mom’s cooking. Except maybe my grandma’s, but she’s been dead for a couple years now.
“Ma! We’re here!” Without even thinking about it, I head down the hallway toward the kitchen, kiss two fingers and press them to my father’s picture as I pass. “Are you in here?”
She’s standing over a pot at the stove, her hair pulled up into a clip, the steam from the pot making her curly hair even curlier around her ears. There’s music on, and she’s doing this thing with her feet that I’m sure at one time she thought was dancing but now it just looks like an unsure shuffle. I crouch down low and sneak up behind her, then grab her ankles and yell as loud as I can.
Her scream is even louder, and I swear she jumps a foot into the air, her arms flailing out, and the wooden spoon in her hand goes flying across the kitchen before it makes contact with the wall and bounces to the floor. Roseanne Clark, all five foot nothing of her, pins me with her icy blue eyes, her hands to her chest and breathing ragged.
“Hey, Ma.” I go in for a hug but she slaps my chest instead. Then she pulls me in for a hug and pushes me away to slap me again.
“You’re the worst,” Audrey speaks up from behind me. She hooks a thumb toward Cline and shakes her head. “I should have made a t-shirt for you instead. You made your mom throw mashed potatoes at the wall, Elliot.”
Mom thrusts a kitchen rag into my hand and then composes herself. “Clean that up. Set the table. I’m going to change my clothes, and then you can introduce me to your friends. Also, I agree. You are the worst.” She hugs me again, turns around, and leaves the room.
Cline wanders over to the stove and starts touching pans. “I think you made her piss herself.”
“Shut up.” I start to laugh and then stop. What if I did?
“Earlier statement retracted. Cline still holds the title for The Worst.” Audrey heads over to the cabinets.
I have just finished cleaning up the wall when I look over and see that Audrey has set the table for the four of us. She sees me looking and shrugs.
“I’m hungry and you’re slow. I don’t want to wait any longer because that smells amazing. I figured I’d help. No big deal.” she says.
My mom reappears in different clothes, making some excuse about not wanting to smell like oil or grease, but now I’m worried I did make her pee herself, and that only means that Cline is a shithead, because scaring each other is a thing with me and my mom. She woke me up for the first day of high school dressed like Freddy Krueger with one of the knife fingers pressed to my throat, telling me if I didn’t get up she was going to turn me into a motorcycle.
Cline sucks.
Audrey and my mom have clicked and are talking up a storm while I stuff my face with as much good food as possible. Cline is watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, and I’m starting to get the feeling that maybe he’s the problem in all of this. Not her.
My mom’s a pretty open book. She’ll talk to any and every one, and her body language is always welcoming. Audrey is responding to it, leaning in like she’s stuck in her tractor beam. There’s a fleeting thought in my head that it must be nice for her to talk to a motherly figure. No wonder she feels so comfortable.
“How is your game coming along?” My mom’s attention is on me, and I chew what is in my mouth quickly to answer her.
“It’s still in the early stages, but once I have everything I need, it should be pretty easy from there.”
“That’s why I’m here. Elliot needed another character for the game, so I said he could use me.” Audrey smiles and it’s genuine.
“What’s it about again?” Mom asks before taking another bite of food.
Audrey opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off to talk over her because I haven’t told my mom anything about the real project. I have no idea how she’ll respond to using my dad’s old journals and letters. I don’t know how it will affect her. So I say, “It’s a fantasy game like Game of Thrones meets Candy Crush, and Audrey’s character rides around on a unicorn and kills people with rainbow-colored unicorn poop cookies.”