Breakfast

Sizzle. Pop, pop, pop. Splashhh.

With a deep inhale the scent travels through my nose, up my snout, then past my eyes and ears. It ventures straight into my stomach which makes it gurgle.

Grease. Mmmmmm. Meat dripping from a frying pan with the oh-so-wonderful smell of fat. It’s hot candy on a stick—or plate—as the case may be. It awakens the expectation of food that causes my nostrils to flare and my mouth to salivate.

That scent—the wake-up call of deliciousness that greets me on mornings when Mom doesn’t go into work early. She’s an angel in disguise and the only one that really gets me. My nose twitches and my eyes crack open.

Bacon! Bacon, bacon, bacon! It’s the best of days that start with bacon. Hands-down, no questions asked, bacon is king in this house and my stomach.

I push and then myself out of the fluffy bedroll and fleece blanket. My long hair hangs in my eyes but I don’t need them to find the kitchen. The well-worn path from the back bedroom into the hall passes the bathroom before it melds into the well-lit room. I can hear the floor creak as the worn-out porcelain tiles rub together. Beneath the florescent lights hangs an undulating cloud that smells like heaven on earth. Then there’s more of the pop, sizzle, and snap from the stove top and I feel my head bob with each sound. It’s like music you can embody.

I toss my head back to dislodge my scruffy hair and blink at the other human moving about the kitchen. Toby’s head is buried in the fridge, his own bed-head rivaling mine. He’s still in boxers and a tee shirt, the cold from the open unit leeching into the warmer space. It temporarily adds the smell of last night’s pasta to the perfume of eggs and frying meat. My stomach growls.

I lick my lips and stare at Mom. Her curly black hair is pulled into a loose knot on top of her head. Her strong hands are busy with the crackling pan of goodness. I lick my lips as the plume of heat resettles in the room. With the fridge door closed, the room is once more engulfed in the smell of my favorite food. I mean, eggs are great too and food is food, but bacon…

I find my way to Mom’s side, dodging Toby as he grabs the plate of toast Mom holds out to him. His other hand grips a chilled Red Bull. It’s his form of coffee and the grunt he ushers is his way of communicating before his fifteen-year-old brain kicks in for the day. I’ve yet to figure out what he’s saying with that noise but it never seems to phase Mom so I don’t worry. Mom can speak everyone’s language and right now she’s speaking mine in waves.

I scoot closer to her legs as Toby heads to the breakfast nook. Mom’s eyes never leave the spatula in her hand but I know she’s aware I’m there. She always seems to know where I am, even when I don’t want her to.

She shifts between the two red burners and I try to be patient, waiting as best I can. But I love bacon. I really, really, really love bacon.

“It’s not done yet, Rodger.” She shuffles the spatula from one hand to the other.

Scrape, scrape, scraaape. The fresh scent of eggs mixed with melted cheese and cooked peppers joins the bacon aroma. My mouth is a geyser. I know begging won’t do anything, but does she really know how hard it is to wait? Does she know how much I love bacon?

“You’ll just have to be patient,” she says then looks at me. Her brown eyes are kind but set. She won’t be changing her mind.

I huff then make my way into the nook where two of the four chairs are occupied. Toby is in one, his jaw locked and eyes glazed as he grips his Red Bull and a half-eaten piece of toast. Kimberly sits at the opposite end of the table with her short legs swinging between the chair rungs. Her ten-year-old energy is endearing as she hums a tune that is clearly made up from whatever thoughts are racing through her bright and very awake body. Upon seeing her, I almost forget my disappointment with having to wait for the bacon—almost—then… grrreeeeep.

My stomach adds a not-so-nice melody to her song. Kimberly eyes me with a twinkle in her gaze as I pass her chair and wonder to the far side of the table.

“Morning, Rodger.” Her voice is like a bell that tinkles instead of chimes. She gnaws on a piece of toast and I’m instantly jealous.

I take a seat at the square table diagonal to Kimberly. I don’t say a word as I look at her with what I hope are large imploring eyes of my own.

Kimberly’s pupils are even darker than Mom’s. She blinks at me with a smile then glances at the kitchen. Mom is humming a tune of her own as she plates the bacon and eggs. Kimberly slides me the rest of her toast which I eagerly devour.

“You’re not supposed to do that.” Toby’s sleep-ridden voice is deep and scratchy. He’s been ignoring my presence by not looking at me but I can tell he’d like nothing better than to give me the evil-eye. I think he’s still mad that I nosed my way into his room last week. I didn’t touch anything—I swear. I mean, I snooped around a bit, checked out the pile of socks he leaves on the floor, but I’m pretty sure that everything inside that room is toxic so why would I want to disturb anything he has stashed there? I still don’t know how Mom deals with it.

Oh well, it’s not my problem. Mom wasn’t bothered I got in at all, said that it served Toby right for not checking to see that his door was closed. I was perfectly justified in her eyes, so why worry? Even if Toby and I are no longer friends, I still have Mom and Kimberly. Dad was never a fan of mine but even with Toby on my bad side the scales are even.

Mom comes in with two plates in hand. She sets one in front of each child then glances at me.

“You know you’re not supposed to be at the table.” There is a spark of fondness in her eyes and her words are simple not sharp. No disappointment covers her tone so I feel no reason to vacate my seat.

Her back faces me as she returns to the kitchen. Saliva coats my lips as I watch Kimberly lift a piece of bacon from her plate with two fingers. It’s greasy and crunches between her teeth. She chews with a satisfied smile on her lips as she watches me.

It’s so not fair! I’ve been waiting this whole time. I got out of bed for this.

Kimberly holds up her half-eaten piece like she’s considering giving it to me. Her eyes sparkle before she bites into it with a laugh.

I swallow a whimper, not caring that a line of drool connects my mouth to the stained vanish on the table.

“Rodger, I swear…” Mom comes back with her own plate and an extra piece of bacon in her other hand. She sets her breakfast down then wipes the drool away with a paper towel and my mouth. “Here.” She sets the piece in front of me then takes a seat.

“Are you feeding that dog at the table again?” Dad comes into the kitchen with his own plate in hand and glares at me. I grab the piece between my teeth and jump from the chair. I almost got to eat at the table with them this time—almost.