The whole house smells like butter and cinnamon the next morning. Warm. Cozy. Home. Everyone was asleep when I got back from the dance, so I tiptoed upstairs, hung up my dress, pulled on pajamas, and crawled into bed.
As I head downstairs, I hear the low murmur of voices. Poppy’s giggle. Sequoia humming to himself. The gentle scrape of forks against dishes. I enter the kitchen, the corners of my mouth turning up hesitantly.
But my parents don’t greet me.
There isn’t a place set for me at the table.
There isn’t a juice cup or silverware or a napkin or a plate.
Poppy slides her eyes to me as she gulps down her OJ. She watches as I take a step forward, then turns her head to watch my parents.
Waiting.
I wait, too. I wait to see if they’ll say anything.
But they don’t.
Not even hello.
I walk to the cupboard and pull out a plate for myself. But the dish that usually holds a pile of pancakes for all of us is nothing but crumbs and a few smashed blueberries. Fine. I’ll make toast instead. I rummage through the bread basket and pull out a slice of homemade honey wheat. I slide it into the toaster, lean against the counter, and wait.
“Hi,” I say, my voice an echo. Distant.
“Hey,” Sequoia says without looking up.
Nobody else responds.
“Hi,” I say again.
My dad looks at my mom. “As I was saying, that’s the deadline, so I’ll need to work today even though it’s Sunday.”
“Um, hello,” I say. “I’m here. I exist. You could’ve left me some pancakes.”
“Oh,” my mom says, looking up at me like she just realized I exist. “We thought you might rather go to Starbucks. You don’t seem to want to be a part of this family or our ways anymore, so we just figured we’d let you do you.”
My dad nods. “Yep. Starbucks. You have birthday money, right? Knock yourself out.”
“I don’t want Starbucks. I want to sit down and have pancakes with my family.”
My dad harrumphs. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Poppy rolls her eyes. Sighs. “It means you should’ve thought of what you were doing before you did it.”
I turn to her. “And what exactly is it that you think I did?”
She shrugs matter-of-factly. “Ruined our family.”
My mom winces. But she only spends a split second with that expression on her face before she goes back to her juice and the conversation she was having with my dad. “Might as well work through today and get it done. Refill?” She holds the juice pitcher up to my dad. He nods, and she pours OJ all the way to the top, emptying the pitcher so there’s none left for me.
Poppy chews on her pancakes. Sequoia stabs at blueberries with his fork. My mom and dad look at each other and smile their unspoken smile.
I’m on the outside looking in.
Like I’m in one of those stories where a person has come back as a ghost and wants to make enough noise to let the people they care about know they’re there, but no matter how much they scream and shout, nobody hears them.
The toaster dings as my toast springs out. I plunk it onto my plate, grab a glass from the drying rack next to the sink and fill it with water, and take a seat next to Poppy.
“So this is how it’s going to be? Everyone is going to ignore me?”
“I don’t know what you expect us to do,” my mom says. “You’ve chosen to spit in the face of everything we stand for. Everything we’ve fought for and believe to our core. How do you expect us to feel?”
“I tried talking to you about it. I tried everything to avoid it going this far. I had no other choice.”
“No other choice?” My dad’s face goes red and bulgy. He reminds me of Teddy at the party after the football game. “You do realize you can’t come back from this, right? You take us to court, you get your vaccinations, and things will never be the same in this family. I promise you that.”
Poppy sits there opening and closing her mouth like she’s debating whether or not to chime in.
“Maybe I don’t want to come back from it!” I yell. “Maybe I want everything to change.”
Sequoia puts his hands over his ears to block out my shouting.
“Well, you’ve certainly done a good job of it,” my mom says.
“Do you not want to live here anymore?” my dad says. “Do you not want us to be your parents anymore?”
“No.” My bottom lip wobbles. I try not to cry. “I want to live in this house. I want to live with my parents and my family.”
“Well, you can’t have it both ways,” my dad says. “You can’t actively decide to go against everything we believe in and expect us to throw you a party at the same time. These choices you’ve made, they change everything. They change the dynamic of this house. You and your mom and me. Poppy and Sequoia. Everything’s different now. And excuse me if I’m not going to high-five you for making it happen.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” my mom sputters tearfully.
“I’m done, too,” my dad says, scooting away from the table.
Poppy clears the plates, sets them in the sink, and leaves, too.
Sequoia and I are left sitting at the table together. He chomps on his last bite of pancake. I watch him until he looks at me. Grins a gummy grin that comes from missing his top two front teeth. He wriggles in his seat, leaning his chair back and almost losing his balance. He rights himself quickly and pushes away from the table.
I reach for his hand. Pull him back to me.
“What?” he says, sitting down again.
“Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“Do I have to have a reason?”
“Guess not.” He picks at a blueberry. Tosses it into his mouth. Studies me. “But why?”
“Do you hate me?”
“You’re my sister.”
“So?”
“So how could I hate you if you’re my sister? I’m supposed to love you.”
“But do you actually love me or do you just think you’re supposed to love me?”
He props his elbow on the table, rests his chin in the palm of his hand like he really has to think about it. “I actually love you.”
My eyes mist. My vision blurs. “Thanks.”
His eyes crinkle. “Why are you crying?”
I swipe at my face. “I just am.”
He studies me. Shrugs. “Okay.”
I spend the rest of the day continuing to feel like a ghost in my own house, shuffling down hallways and tiptoeing down stairs. Pouring a glass of water. Taking a shower. Brushing my hair. Reading my books.
My Snow Ball dress hangs from a hanger on the back of my door. Sometimes, when I walk past it, I create enough of a breeze to make it flutter. Last night already feels like a lifetime ago. My dress is a memory. A ghost, too.
I spend my day alone.
Nobody comes to check on me.
Nobody cares.