Candy Colored Sky, стр. 25

“I suppose I’d have to live . . . derivativeless,” she punches back.

Because Grandpa Hank loves it when Mom goes after me instead of him, he lets out a full-mouthed belly laugh.

“Shut up and eat your pancakes, old man,” I fire back.

With his plate only half finished, he slides it away from him and takes a napkin to his mouth.

“I think I’ll hold out for the superior pancakes, if you don’t mind,” he says, winking at Eleanor, who stirs things in her bowl as she takes in our regular morning routine.

“Hey, I made those pancakes!” my mom announces, play-slapping Grandpa on the arm as she completely blows my cover.

“Jonah!” I get a similar arm slap from Eleanor, leaving me with no choice but to come completely clean.

“Fine! I’m a fraud! Oh, my God, it feels so much better to have that out in the open.” I sink back into the counter’s edge and roll my neck while everyone laughs at my expense.

After a few longs seconds, the kitchen gets quiet again, enough that we all zone out to the whir of Eleanor’s mixing. She turns her back to us, probably because we’re all staring at her. In my case, my complete attention is focused on how hard I think she must be working to seem normal. It has to be exhausting.

“Are you guys like this every morning?” she asks, finally snapping us out of our silence.

“Oh, every day’s a little different, but yeah, for the most part,” Grandpa coughs out.

He excuses himself from the table to head to the powder room for his first coughing round of the day. When Eleanor swivels her head to look at me with worry, I shake it off.

“He’s okay. I mean, classic chronic respiratory disease for sure, but nothing that seems to keep him from smoking cigars on Thursdays.” I shrug with a smile to give her added reassurance. Honestly, though, I don’t love how cavalier my grandpa is about his health. I don’t think my mom does either, but he’s stubborn as hell, so we pick our battles.

Eleanor’s first round of cakes are ready in minutes, and Grandpa Hank makes sure he’s back to the table in time to take the first few for himself. Eleanor turns her attention back to the griddle to make another round while the three of us dive in and agree through glances that these are, in fact, the best pancakes we have ever eaten.

“Do you cook for your family often, Eleanor?”

I drop my fork at my mom’s question. Every conversation topic feels rife with danger. I clear my throat and apologize quietly while I toss my sullied fork in the sink and get myself a new one. I fear my worry about my mother’s question is right given the long pause before Eleanor responds, but when she finally does, it doesn’t seem as if talking to us about her family is hard for her at all. And she doesn’t dance around the hard truth.

“I used to, last year. I’ve been so busy this year, though, with all of the senior-year stuff.” She lifts one shoulder casually as her back remains to us. She flips the cakes over one at a time, this round made up of smaller ones so more fit on the cooking surface. “I actually miss it. I tried making dinner a few times this week. I was just trying to help out, but my parents aren’t, well, they aren’t so good.”

I rejoin my family at the table and meet their heavy gazes.

“We’re so very sorry,” my mom says.

There it is again. Sorry.

“Thank you,” Eleanor responds, still keeping her hands busy by sliding the cakes around. “It’s been hard. And I can’t really talk to them about things because they just aren’t . . . good.” She nods slowly with her words.

“I bet it’s nice having your sister there to help,” my mom adds.

Eleanor’s laughed response is unexpected and quick.

“I guess. She’s taken over making decisions, which is good because I don’t know what to say when the police give us updates and offer suggestions. Morgan has always been better at that stuff.”

“What stuff?” I ask, biting my tongue the moment I speak. It felt natural, though.

“Oh, like, being in charge, I guess.” Eleanor laughs. Scooping up the remaining cakes, she brings the piled flapjacks over to the table and sets them in the middle. My mom stands to get her an extra plate, but Eleanor shakes my mom’s offer off.

“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry,” she says.

My mom pauses and Grandpa and I immediately look down at our food. No matter how normal Eleanor tries to make us believe things are, she’s not strong enough to fake it all away.

“Well . . .” Mom clears her throat and returns to her seat, catching me with a quick glance as I look up. “Thank you for treating us. And for celebrating Jonah’s day.”

“I’d give you a card or something but I already bought you a car,” Grandpa mumbles. “So happy freaking birthday, kiddo.”

His brashness breaks up the building uneasiness, and I relax back into my natural ways a little more.

“I’m pretty sure we already owned the Bronco, and to be technical, you didn’t buy me any parts yet. I met Dale yesterday, and he says you’re even now.” I roll my eyes jokingly and glance to my side to make sure Eleanor is amused too. She’s smiling.

“You’re seriously calling in poker favors for car parts?” My mom glares across the table at my grandpa with her palms flat on the tabletop on either side of her plate. Both Eleanor and I cover our mouths to laugh.

“And you called my poker nights nothing but debauchery. Pfft,” Grandpa Hank says, waving his hand in dismissal.

My mom glares at him hard until he must feel it because he lifts his gaze to meet her waiting stare and immediately lets out a laugh.

“So how does one get an invite to this poker game,” Eleanor slips in. My