Four In the Morning

It’s four in the morning. The air is warm, my head is spinning, and I leave for college in three days. I am sitting on the kitchen counter with a plate of pancakes in my lap, my fingers wet from a lack of silverware. It’s quiet, something uncommon for a family of eight. 

Well. Was. 

“Max?” Jasper whisper-yells, causing me to jump and nearly fall onto the still-hot stove burner. “What the hell are you doing up so late? It’s past three!” 

I suck my teeth and shrug, wiping my hands on my pajamas. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

He narrows his eyes at my plate. “Are those pancakes? Are you eating pancakes at three in the morning?”

“Four, actually,” I point out, setting the plate to the side and dropping my feet to the floor. “And I was hungry.”

Jasper huffs, crossing his arms. “What do you mean you couldn’t sleep? You have a bad dream or something?” I shrug, opting not to answer him and holding out my plate. 

“You want one?”

He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah,” he mutters, taking the box of mix and what’s left into the bowl I was using, “I’ll make some myself.” And he does. I hand him the milk and crack the eggs (”I’m pretty sure pancakes don’t use eggs.” “Are you doubting me, the one who made pancakes before you even came in here?”) while he taps his foot to the beat of a song I can’t hear. When he’s done he sits down on the floor, crossing his legs and facing me, now sitting back on the counter. 

I tilt my head at him. “You sure you don’t wanna sit up here?” I offer. “There’s enough room for two.” He shakes his head and dips a bite in a container of syrup- Jasper has never been one to have his food touching. 

“It’s cool. I like the ground better anyway.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

There’s a short pause as Jasper eats from his plate while I work on washing off the pan. I’m the one to break it. “So, why’re you up so late?”

He sends me a glare that by no means is any sort of friendly. “'Could ask you the same thing,” he says, his mouth full and voice muffled. I raise my hands in surrender. 

“Fine, whatever. Didn’t wanna know anyway.” 

The air is thick and almost tense now, the silence awkward while Jasper refuses to look me in the eyes. My plate is empty and cooling against the cotton of my pants. Just when I’m about to get up to leave, Jasper rubs his neck, biting his lip before speaking.

“I just…” He huffs and crosses his arms. “You gotta promise you won’t, like. Pity me. Or give advice.” He breathes through his nose in a way I think is meant to be a laugh. “You’re so bad at advice.”

“Hey!” I scold, almost offended. “I give great advice! You just refuse to lis-”

“Please?” He cuts me off, shoulders sagging. “I just wanna figure this stuff out on my own. It’d mean a lot.” 

It takes a moment, but I calm down. I smile in a way I hope is comforting and lean my head against my knee. “Yeah dude, of course. What’s up?” 

Jasper stares at the floor like it contains the secrets to the world. “I dunno. I’m just, like. Stressed I guess. I mean- you’re going to college, and that’s great, I’m real proud of you dude. But like. I’m the second oldest. I’m gonna have to do all the stuff you do. It’s gonna be up to me to help out Daddy in the shed, or help the kids with their schoolwork, or make dinner when Mama’s too tired. It’s just…. it’s a lot, you know?” 

There’s a pregnant pause between us while the wheels in my mind turn, trying to process what he just said. Eventually my face drops and I reach out my hand. “Jasp…” 

He shakes his head and bats my hand away. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he were angry. “Don’t-” he says, and it sounds almost desperate. “It’s fine, okay? I’m just. It’s just a lot, and. Yeah. I’ll be cool.”

I drop myself to the floor beside him, sitting on my knees. Almost instantly my arms are wrapped around him and he’s gripping onto my shirt like I’ll disappear at any moment. 

I will- be disappearing, that is. But not yet.

“I’ll miss you,” I murmur into the fabric of his pajamas. Because if I can’t give advice, then maybe comfort will be a suitable replacement.

Jasper sniffles into my shoulder. “I’ll miss you too,” he says, muffled and choked, before dissolving into a fit of tears that leaks through my shirt. It’s okay though. Because it’s Jasper, and in my mind he could do no wrong. Not like this. 

We don’t get off the floor for a long time.

-

It’s four in the morning. The air is warm, my head is spinning, and I leave for college in two days. The back door is open while smoke from my cigarette drifts outside. In exchange, the sound of bugs buzzes through the kitchen. 

The creaking of stairs sounds above my head, surprising me enough to drop the cig onto the tile floor. “Shit,” I mutter, huffing. I snuff it out beneath my foot and toss it in the trash can outside. Ash is swept into the corner. 

The less-than-quiet pattering of footsteps approaches the kitchen quickly, and soon enough Amira is standing in the doorway. We make eye contact and she immediately cringes. “Well, erm. Didn’t expect you to be up.” 

I grin and shrug. “I’m a night owl,” I lie, standing to close the door. “What’re you doing here?”

She holds out two empty water bottles, looking much too calm, and I am suddenly met with the strange realization that she’s wearing makeup. Huh. “I was thirsty. I was gonna just fill these up and go back to my room.” 

Tilting my head, I ask, “Two of them?” She immediately panics and avoids my eyes, twisting the cap off one of the bottles before twisting it back on, over and over again. There’s a creaking upstairs and all the sudden everything seems wildly obvious. 

“Is there someone in your room??”

“Uhm-” Amira groans. “Okay, look! Deb came over because her parents are both at work-” 

“How’d she get in your room?! You’re on the second floor!” 

“So we were just! Hanging out! We gave each other makeovers and now we’re just trying to wash it off with some water and god, please don’t tell Mama, she’ll have my head for having a girl in my room and-” 

“God, Amira, just breathe. Jesus Christ.” I shake my head and face my palms to the floor, flexing my fingers while my brain tries to grasp everything that’s happening. “Okay. Alright. You’ve got a girl in your room, who somehow managed to sneak through the second-floor window, and you are now trying to get some water to remove your makeovers.” She nods, as if this is just a regular Saturday morning. My eye twitches. 

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm down. “Alright then. Fine. Whatever. I guess your friend’s a spider monkey. Fine by me. Just… wait here a second, k?” 

I don’t wait for her response before shuffling off to the bathroom, grabbing something from behind the cabinet mirror, and coming back. Amira looks at me, anxious, and I drop it in her hand. She’s filled the water bottles. 

“Make-up wipes,” I supply, watching her confusion. “They work way better than water.” 

Her mouth makes a little ‘o’, then changing as she scrunches up her eyebrows. “How do you know?” 

Shrug. “A man’s gotta be looking pretty from time to time. Don’t you be judging.” 

She laughs, giving me a smile “Thanks Max,” she grins, making her way out of the kitchen. When she gets to the doorway she pauses. After a moment she turns on her heel, giving me an awkward smile. “Take it off for me?” she asks, holding out the package of wipes. “The makeup, I mean.” 

I scoff. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t know how to wipe some stuff off your face?”

Amira shakes her head, nervously rubbing her fingers together. “No! I mean, just,” she says, stuttering, “I’d like it if you did it. Since you’re leaving soon.” It’s awkward. My hand is still on the door and the buzzing of bugs is ringing in the air so loudly it almost sounds like tinnitus. 

“Don’t you have a friend upstairs? Wouldn’t she get uh. Antsy?” 

Her phone flashes against the kitchen lights. “I can text her.” 

And we’re sitting on the floor, her knees crossed in front of mine. The tile is cold against my legs- I block it out as best I can. I stumble through the motions of removing her eyeshadow, her lipstick, her blush. We don’t speak much. My attempts at conversation are shot down as soon as they leave my mouth. 

“So. Aren’t you a little young to have a girlfriend?” 

Face warming against my hands, Amira makes some noise in the back of her throat that sounds suspiciously like a whine. “We are not talking about this.” 

“Okay, okay, whatever, we’ll just sit in silence then. Heaven forbid.”

A beat. “I am fifteen, you know.”

Smirking, I pull the wipe away to look at her. She looks like she’s trying not to smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we weren’t having this conversation?” I tap her forehead. “Close your eyes.”

Surprisingly, she does so without hesitation. “We aren’t!” Her protests are just slightly insincere, considering the grin she keeps failing to fight down. “I simply wanted you to know that I am fifteen and therefore at a very normal age for dating. Some would even say it’s natural.”

“Wow, did you just admit it’s the hormones? Amira, if I find out that you and your friend are doing anything I wouldn’t-”

“Max I am literally begging you to shut up.”

By the time we’re done there’s a pile of crumpled wipes on the floor beside us and Amira is looking at me with an expression I can’t read. “I’ll clean this all up, you get back to your friend.” I murmur, pushing on my knee and standing. I hope out a hand to help her up but she doesn’t take it. 

“I want you to meet her. Deb.” My expression must not be the best, because she quickly tries to explain herself before I can speak. “I mean, not right now. Obviously. That’d be- that’d be awkward, ha. ‘Hey Max, come hang out with me and this chick I snuck through my window at four in the morning.’ Yeah, no, I mean, like. In the future. When we’re older and when you come back. For visits and stuff.” 

Please come back.

I give her a smile I hope doesn’t seem too terse and ruffle her hair, pulling her up. “We’ll see.” I hand her the wipes for her friend. “Don’t get too rowdy, yeah?” 

“Me, rowdy?” She snickers, turning on her heel to leave. For real this time. “I’d never.”

The wipes have dried out by the time I throw them in the trash. The sun rises. 

-

It’s four in the morning. The air is warm, my head is spinning, and I leave for college today. I am standing in the kitchen doorway while my mother throws vegetables into a pot of soup. She hums the tune to a song I made a year ago and does not acknowledge my presence. I rub my eyes. 

Finally, she asks, “What’re you doing up this late?” It doesn’t sound like she expects an answer, but I decide to speak anyway. 

“I’ve been asked that a lot lately,” I muse, stepping in and leaning over her shoulder. It smells almost sweet. “I couldn’t sleep. Been thinking a lot lately.”

In truth, it feels silly to sleep when I’m going to be gone so soon. Like a waste of precious time here. So I stay awake. My eyes burn but I continue to stare at the ceiling of my room, trying to memorize each and every crack in the plaster. Eventually, I end up down here. But it’s mostly staring. Mostly thinking. Mostly exploring the labyrinth of memories in my mind and trying to find the ones that matter. I don’t say all that, not to Mama, but I think she somehow understands. 

“I’m making soup. If I start now, it’ll be done by the time we get going to your campus.” Mama smiles, soft in a way that doesn’t suit her. “A little taste of home, hm?” 

When I don’t respond right away she chuckles, stirring what’s in the pot. She gestures to the table. “Well go sit now. You’ve got some things to say, don’t you? Gotta get all tied up in that mind of yours.” 

I am many things, but someone who does not listen to Mama isn’t one of them. So I sit. I lean my head against my arm and think for a good couple minutes. Mama does not rush me.

“I don’t want to leave,” I say, and it’s so quiet I’m not sure she’s heard me at first. 

But Mama snorts, her long wooden spoon pausing it’s stirring for the briefest of moments. She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Of course you wanna leave,” she says, all-knowing, “it’s crowded and much too loud for someone like you here. You wouldn’t be happy if you stayed.”

“But…” I trail off. My head feels heavier against my hand, somehow. Mama gives me a side-eye and pulls her spoon out of the soup, wiping it against a long-since-stained towel on the counter. 

“Try again,” she supplies, patiently waiting for me to regroup my thoughts. I ponder for a moment. 

“I don’t want to forget,” I say, this time more confidant. Mama hums her approval at my confession and puts a lid on top of the pot. The stove clicks as she turns down the dial. I watch as she plops herself in the seat opposite from me, clasping her hands and not meeting my eyes. She’s thinking, I’m sure. She never meets my eyes when she’s thinking. It distracts her. 

“What’s got you so worried about forgetting?” Mama questions me, sounding almost tired. “You haven’t inherited your daddy’s memory. Not that I know of.” 

“It’s just…” My words catch in my throat and I can’t help but grow frustrated when they sound choppy upon release. “I dunno. You hear stories, right? Like. There are all these kids at school that’re eager to leave and start a new life- become the new them. And I want that too! But it’s scary. And I just… I don’t know if I’ll get too caught up in it. I’m not gonna have time like I do now to call or text, let alone actually visit. What if it gets too much? What if I start forgetting?” 

I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. “I’m just so tired. And I don’t know- I don’t know if I can keep this up anymore. I don’t know who I am. I mean, obviously, I’m Max, but just. I dunno. I don’t know who I’m becoming- who I’ll become- and… and I’m not sure if you’ll like him. And if you don’t, then… I don’t know if I’ll be able to remember. I’ll leave and it’s. It’s just scary.”

I can’t deal with you not liking him.

Mama looks at me with a raised eyebrow and wrinkles that are turned up in a way that looks almost amused. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking too hard.” 

That gets a laugh. It’s clipped and much too breathy, but it’s a laugh. “You know me,” I shrug, running a hand through my braids. “Always the worrywart.”

The silence between us is less than comfortable, but it’s more than tense. We’re both searching for words in uncharted areas, looking for the right thing to say when the difference between left and right is unclear. It’s almost calm. 

Carefully, Mama speaks. “I can’t tell you if you will or won’t forget,” she reaches for my hand and intertwines our fingers. “Or if you’ll become someone you’ll be proud of. But I want you to know that no matter what, I love you.”

“But-” 

“Max, you are my pride and joy. You’re my son. I wouldn’t- you can’t just throw that away over nothing.” Her grip tightens. “And I know you’re going to do good things. Great, even. And I want to see those things, Max. You’re my firstborn and you’re going to be the first of the generation to make a name for yourself. I know that no matter what, I’ll love you. No matter who you become.” She takes a shaky breath and finally meets my eyes. Her’s are shining. “You have a heart of gold. There’s no way you could become anything without.”

She’s crying, and I’m crying, but I have never seen her cry before, so I’m at a loss for words. Mama quickly stands, wobbly on her feet, and walks into the kitchen. “Come,” she says, choked up, “Help me make breakfast.”

“Of course,” I whisper. My hands are slow as they wipe tears from my eyes. I stand by her side. “Always.” 

It’s four in the morning. The kitchen is warm, my thoughts are quiet, and I leave for college in a few hours. My eyes are drooping but Mama is laughing at something I said and I can’t find it in me to leave for bed. 

I’ll sleep in the car.