Birthday Breakfast

There is no answer when I tap gently on the closed door of my step-daughter’s bedroom.

“Jenny?” I call out. “Can I open the door?”

This at least elicits a noncommittal “Huh” which I choose to interpret as ‘Yes’.

I turn the knob and push the door open. Jenny is seated at her desk in front of the computer, no doubt on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or God knows what kids spend all their time on. Her blonde hair is uncombed and she’s still dressed in the t-shirt and jogging shorts she had worn to bed last night.

“What?” She questions, turning her head to glance in my direction for less than a second. Her tone is not hostile, exactly, but neither is it warm and friendly.

“It’s your mom’s birthday today,” I state.

“Yeah, I know. Did you come in here to tell me that? What, did you think I forgot or something? She was my mom before she was your wife.”

“I was just thinking we could make her breakfast,” I suggest.

“Why?”

“Because it would be a nice thing to do for her.” After a pause of a few seconds I add in a voice that sounds somewhat uncertain even to my own ears “And I was thinking maybe it was something we could do, you know, together.”

Jenny is out of her chair and facing me now, her arms folded across her chest as she gives me the kind of glare that only an incensed fifteen year old is capable of delivering.

“I’m not even supposed to be here this week!” She hisses. “I’m supposed to be at my dad’s! I don’t want to be here. So no, I’m not going to do any stupid step-dad bonding bullcrap with you, Gary!”

“You know why the plans had to change,” I remind her, careful to keep my voice neutral. I learned quite some time ago that raising my own voice only tends to add more stress to the situation.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Grandma broke her hip and Dad’s taking care of her and blah, blah, blah. I don’t understand why I couldn’t have still stayed with him. I could have helped him with Grandma.”

Personally, I can understand exactly why Jenny’s father had requested that we keep her here for the rest of the summer. I can imagine caring for a recovering senior citizen would be enough of a task without a sullen teenager added in for good measure.

“Besides, this way you can be here to celebrate your mom’s birthday.”

“Yay.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“And you don’t have to be in my bedroom. Just leave me alone, Gary. You can make my mom breakfast if you want, just leave me out of it.”

I know I may be treading on thin ice but I can’t keep myself from pushing it just a little.

“Come on, it might be fun. If you get bored you can always come back to your room and do whatever you want.”

“If I get bored or you get too annoying,” she needles me.

I can feel my jaw clench involuntarily but I take a deep breath and refuse to allow myself to rise to the bait. “I’ll just have to try not to be too annoying, then.”

Apparently at a loss for a good comeback (for once) Jenny rolls her eyes and follows me out of her bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen.

“What’re we making?” She questions.

“Well, we both know what your mom’s favorite breakfast is. Do you want to check to make sure we have everything we need?” I busy myself making coffee while Jenny walks over to open first the refrigerator then the pantry.

“Pretty much,” she states with a shrug of her shoulders. “We used the last of the bacon yesterday, though. We might still have some frozen sausages.” She returns to the fridge and opens the freezer.

She pulls out the box of sausages and peers into it. “Four left.”

“Okay. Blueberry pancakes and sausages it is, then. You want to get started with the pancake mix?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Can you do it anyway?”

“You remember what I said about you getting too annoying?”

I can feel my jaw attempting to clench again. “Come on, Jenny. Can you at least try to play nice? Please? It’s Lisa’s birthday.”

She doesn’t say anything but she does grab a mixing bowl from beneath the counter and the pancake mix from the pantry, which I take as a good sign. I ignore the weighty sigh she emits as she does so.

“Can I have some coffee?” Jenny requests, eyeing me narrowly as she pulls the carton of fresh blueberries out of the refrigerator. “You know Mom lets me.”

I pour her the half-cup Lisa allows her and hand it over.

“Thanks, Gary.” The smile she gives me is genuine. I guess I managed to pass that particular test.

“You’re welcome.” I retrieve another cup and pour myself some coffee.

Jenny rinses the blueberries in the sink before dumping them into the mixing bowl, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to remind her to do so.

I retrieve two skillets and place the smaller one on the back burner, adding a little vegetable oil before I dump the sausages into it.

“Lisa tells me you’re planning on joining the Drama Club when school starts up again,” I comment.

She gives her shoulders a little shrug. “It might be fun, I guess.”

“Are you planning on auditioning for plays?”

“D’nno. I mean, it might be fun to do musicals. I like to sing and everything. But I don’t know if I’m good enough.”

“Oh, you are. You have a great voice.”

The handle of the whisk slips from her fingers and clatters against the edge of the metal bowl. Her blue eyes are very wide as she stares at me.

“When have you heard me sing?!” She demands in an almost accusatory tone.

“I’ve heard you in your room. Through the door. You have a great voice.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Teenagers are tough.

“I’m done mixing.”

I flip the sausages over then turn the heat on under the larger skillet and stand back to let Jenny pour some of the pancake mix into it.

“Did Lisa ever tell you I was in Drama in high school?” I ask her.

She shrugs her shoulders. “D’nno. I don’t think so.” I believe this can be accurately interpreted as ‘She probably did, but I don’t really listen to anything she says about my dumb step-dad.’ “Were you?”

“Yep. I was Harold Hill in my school’s production of The Music Man.”

“Wait, seriously? You got the lead role?” There is something hovering just below the disbelief in her inflection. Dare I say respect?

“Yep.”

“Sing something.” The challenge is clear, not only in her tone but in the eyes holding my gaze over the rim of her mug.

I turn my attention back to the pancake just long enough to flip it over, then launch into ‘Seventy-Six Trombones’. Jenny joins in after only a slight hesitation.

When I roll the sausages onto a plate next to the pancakes she reaches out and grabs one.

“Guess I counted wrong,” she quips. “There were only three left.”

“Hey, that’s for…”

Before I am able to finish my sentence she tears the sausage in two pieces and holds half of it out to me.

“Huh, you were right, there were only three left after all,” I grin, popping the bite into my mouth. She smiles at me. It is another genuine smile, devoid of anger or sarcasm. It’s not an expression I see often on her face.

“Do you know any songs from Little Shop of Horrors?” She questions.

“Of course I do.”

We are halfway through singing the soundtrack when Lisa joins us downstairs in the kitchen, interrupting Jenny’s rendition of ‘Someplace Green’.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I murmur, giving Lisa a kiss. “Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday, Mom,” Jenny chips in.

“What’s all this?” Lisa questions.

“Gary and I made breakfast for you.” Jenny pours her mother a cup of coffee and sets it down on the table beside the plate of pancakes and sausages. I pull the chair out for Lisa and motion for her to sit down.

Her eyes, a softer shade of blue than her daughter’s, travel from Jenny’s face to mine. “You made me breakfast together?” The smile that spreads across her face is both bemused and relieved.

“Yep,” I confirm.

“So you were actually…” Lisa allows her voice to trail off, uncertain how to proceed.

“Doing stupid step-dad bonding bullcrap,” I finish for her, making eye contact with Jenny. She giggles.