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Breakfast Table

Chapter Two

The kitchen smells like burnt toast. That’s my fault. I shoved two slices in, wandered off to hunt for my left boot, and forgot about them until the smoke alarm started shrieking.

Now Mom waves a dish towel at the ceiling, muttering curses under her breath. “One day, you’re going to burn this whole house down.”

“One day,” I say, dropping into a chair, “this house is going to deserve it.”

She gives me the look. The one that says don’t start. I keep my mouth shut and pick at the toast anyway, even though it’s blackened on one side.

Across the table, my brother slurps cereal like it’s a performance art piece. He glances at my jacket. “Why do you always dress like a boy?”

The question is loud. Too loud. I feel it vibrate in my bones.

“Because I like pockets,” I snap, a little sharper than I mean to. I tug the jacket tighter around me, suddenly aware of my mother’s silence.

She doesn’t defend me. She never does. She just stares at her coffee mug, like the swirl of cream in the middle is more fascinating than her own kid.

I shove the rest of the toast in my mouth, swallow it dry, and stand. “I’m going to be late.”

“For what?” my brother asks.

I don’t answer.

Outside, the morning air is cold enough to sting, but at least it doesn’t ask questions.