Page 70 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“Yes,” Jeff calls without tearing his eyes from the screen. “Hadley, Myra, wash your hands, girls.”

They divert course almost seamlessly, two little four-year-old rockets shooting toward the bathroom, hands and faces sticky from sneaking candy. I smile slightly as they zoom past.

They’re loud, but they’re cute. If I ever have kids someday, I hope they’re as cute as the twins.

To give myself something useful to do, I set the table. My parents aren’t overly formal, but they aren’t like Juniper and I, either, who use plastic plates from Target. The plates I set out are glazed ceramic, the cups glass. A few minutes later my mom and Caroline emerge from the kitchen, carrying what looks like roast beef, mashed potatoes, and a large bowl of salad. The smell of food is what seems to pry my dad and Jeff away from the TV; they mute it, and within thirty seconds everyone is seated. I scowl at the mashed potatoes, remembering the food fight in the cafeteria. At least my mom’s food is better than any school lunch.

As my eyes trail over the table, though, an uncomfortable twinge of…somethingplucks at my heart. I eye the mashed potatoes, covered in gravy; the roast beef, surrounded by carrots and onions; the salad, tossed with cheese, tomatoes, and croutons. I take the table in, and then I realize: it has always looked this way.

When I was a kid, and even still today, I have always been able to sit at a table that’s loaded with food. We could afford it, yes, but I was also raised by parents who took the time to cook for us. Hunger, especially as a child, has many different sources, but two of them are the lack of money to buy food and the lack of an adult figure to prepare that food.

I grew up with both.

I’m rounding the table before I even realize my feet are moving. And when I reach my mother, enveloping her in a huge hug, my arms are folding her into my embrace before I even give them consent to do so.

“Thank you,” I say into her fluffy hair. She smells like dish soap and lavender potpourri.

“Oh, my,” she says, sounding flustered. She seems surprised enough by this sudden display of affection that she doesn’t know how to respond, but a moment later her arms wrap around me, returning my hug. “For what?”

How do I even begin to explain? How do I tell her that I’ve been feeling irritable about my high school students throwing food around, and yet I didn’t even think to thank the woman who made sure I was always fed and clothed and happy? How do I tell her I’m slowly learning that it’s okay to feel grateful rather than guilty that I grew up with so much?

“Just—the meal,” I say, my voice halting. “It looks good.”

She chuckles, the sound muffled by my shoulder. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now sit down, let’s eat. The food is getting cold.”

I get a few strange looks as I sit back down—mostly from my dad and Caroline—but no one says anything, and I’m grateful. Then, for a few minutes, dinner goes the way dinners always do: the women talk and the men eat. My dad, Jeff, and I are all more on the quiet side, probably because we’ve got Caroline and my mom to contend with. They chatter back and forth while the three of us stuff our faces, acting like we’ve never eaten anything good in our lives before this meal. What can I say, though? My mom’s cooking is fantastic.

I’m just standing up to refill my water glass when the doorbell rings. I look at my parents, who in turn are looking at each other.

“Is someone else coming?” my dad says with a frown.

“No,” my mom says, and she’s frowning too.

“Yes,” Caroline says.

We all turn to her.

“It’s Juniper,” she says in answer to our unspoken question. Then she smiles at me. “She needs to borrow some of the clothes I keep in my old bedroom closet.”

“What the heck kind of name isJuniper—” Jeff begins, but Caroline silences him with a glare.

“She’s Aiden’s new roommate, and she’s very nice,” my sister says, “so you will all behave yourselves and refrain from asking any invasive questions.” When no one answers, she looks pointedly at our mom. “Mother,” she says, the warning clear in her tone.

“Of course I’ll behave myself,” my mom says, blustering a bit. She smooths her hands over her frizzy, brownish-gray hair. “I only was wondering why she wanted to room with a man—”

“Nope,” I say. “You definitely are not asking her that.” Then I turn to Caroline. “Why did you invite her here?”

“Because,” Caroline says, exasperated, “I told her she could borrow an outfit, and it’s one of the ones I keep in my old bedroom because it doesn’t fit me anymore.”

“Yeah, but with everyone here,” I say, running my hand through my hair. This has the potential to be a trainwreck.

Jeff clears his throat. “Is anyone gonna answer the door, or…?”

“Yes, I’m going,” Caroline says, hurrying away from the table.

“Why would she think I’m going to be invasive?” my mom says to my dad, looking hurt. “I’m not invasive. Am I invasive?”

“What doesinvasivemean?” Hadley says.

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