Craving's Creek

Chapter 1 1994 I stir more butter into the orange mess of powdered cheese and dump a ladle of the shiny noodles into two identical Cookie Monster bowls. I look over the kitchen counter, at the dining room. “Ready, girls?” My sisters nod excitedly. They’re ready all right. Each is seated in her high-chair, looking like a famished wolf disguised in a summer dress and piggy-tails. “Here it comes,” I say, walking over to the cluttered dining room table. “One for you.” I set the bowl in front of Summer first. Yesterday, I served Winter first. I always try to make things right between them. “And one for you.” They’re two years old. They notice these things and make me pay later. “What do you say?” I give them a serious look. I know my dark-brown eyes intimidate them. “Fank you,” Winter says, speaking for both of them. Summer hasn’t said her first real word yet. And that’s all right by me. One babbling two-year-old girl in this house is enough. I go back to the kitchen and grab my mother’s lunch. If I don’t bring her something to eat, she won’t eat all day. She’s been writing since seven o’clock this morning. “Eat,” I tell the girls. “And maybe I’ll take you out in the yard and push you on the tire swing later.” I head down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. “And don’t you choke,” I threaten the girls over my shoulder. “One noodle at a time.” I knock on the bedroom door, but all the while, my mind is on him again. I’m always thinking of him. My Alistair. While I wait for my mother’s invitation to come in, I stare out of the hallway window, because through it, I can see our street, and at the end of our street is Alistair’s house. It’s a shabby, stucco, two-story house with dirty windows, rotting porch, and neglected lawn. I wish he had a better house to live in. Thinking of his face, I watch the yellow curtains move in the attic’s tiny round window. That’s Alistair’s room. His own private sanctuary. I know he’s up there right now, cutting up old curtains or something. He wasn’t at school yesterday or the day before that. I knew he wouldn’t be. He doesn’t really have any friends to say goodbye to, except for me. “Come in,” my mother finally calls out. “I’m done.” I step inside my mother’s territory. “Hello, mother,” I joke, “I brought you some fluorescent noodles.” I look around my parents’ bedroom. I’m always a little shocked at how bad my mom is at housekeeping. If it weren’t for my dad, this house would be a disaster area. “Here.” I offer her the bowl of lumpy noodles. “It’s a rare delicacy.” She glances up at me, but she’s not quite present yet. She’s still trapped in her story. I can tell by the vague expression. I try not to think of what she was writing before I came in. My mother, Hilary Kent, used to be a school receptionist. But when she was pregnant with the twins, she started writing at night, and lo and behold, she’s really good at it. She published her first erotica novel last year, under the name Lorna Moon. “Did you give this to the girls? I don’t want them eating additives or food coloring—” “Hey, I grew up on that stuff.” I sit on the edge of the bed and grin at her. “I know, baby, but I didn’t know any better back then.” My parents had me when they were both very young, and then decided to have another baby at forty. They got two instead. She scrapes her fork across the mac and cheese. “Anyway, you turned out all right.” She leans in and pinches me. “Well, pretty much.” Then she frowns, c*****g an ear to the door. “Are the girls okay? Don’t let them eat alone.” “They’re not alone. They’re together.” But I get up anyway. I know I have to play nice all afternoon if I want to get my allowance and go to Sheryl’s party tonight. My first real summer party this year. “Oh, and tell your father I’ll be out in fifteen minutes. I just have to put down the shower s*x scene between the pilot and Mary Lou, and then I’m done.” She turns back to her typewriter, putting the bowl on her lap. “Your dad is still in the garage, right?” Where else would my father be on a Saturday? I stretch and catch my reflection in the vanity mirror above my mother’s fancy commode full of perfumes and creams. I grew too fast this year. My arms are too long. I need a haircut. My Soundgarden T-shirt is worn thin. I can practically see through some parts. “I’m gonna play in the yard with the girls a little,” I say carefully. “And while they’re napping, I’ll go over to Mrs. Bastone’s house and mow her lawn and all, and then—” “You’ll change into your Superman outfit and rescue a cat caught in a tree.” My mother says this while she types furiously. “What do you want, baby? Just ask me. It’s easier that way.” I step up to the mirror and rake a hand through my brown hair. “You think I should dye my hair?” I ask, out of the blue. I haven’t even really thought about it, but I’m bored with my plain look. Grunge is dead. Kurt Cobain shot himself last April. I need a new look. I should go retro. Try a Billy Idol haircut or something. “Maybe I could bleach my hair.” I catch her eye in the mirror. “Like Alistair’s?” she asks. Why is it that every time I hear his name, everything in me stands at attention like my soul’s been called for battle? “His is naturally white blond like that,” I mutter, turning away from the mirror to hide the color in my face. “Mine would turn out yellow.” “Or orange.” In the dining room, the girls are hollering and banging their plates. I bolt out of the room. “I got this,” I scream out to my mother as I’m rushing to the kitchen. “But, hey, can I go to Sheryl’s pool party?” When I reach the table, I stop and frown at the girls. I didn’t know it was possible to make wigs out of noodles. I hear my mother shout from her bedroom, “You can go to the party!” She laughs wholeheartedly. “But you’re a sly one, Ryde!”