Page 116 of Dying to Meet You
It’s warm and salty and basically perfect. “Where did you learn to make these?”
“The last restaurant where I worked had homemade crackers. Looked so easy I tried myself. Baking bread is a cheap hobby. All you need is a bag of flour and some yeast.”
She watches her father’s long hands as he moves the crackers to a cooling rack. “Maybe set the table?”
“Sure.”
From the cutlery drawer, she pulls out three spoons. But then puts her mother’s back. She’s not going to beg.
While she’s getting the napkins, her mother calls her name from the top of the stairs.
“What?” she yells back.
“Can you put my hair up? I’ve got ten minutes to get out of here.”
She lays the spoons on the table and walks out into the living room. Her mother stands on the staircase in her bathrobe, looking agitated.
“So this is, like, fancy?” Natalie asks. “What’s the occasion?”
“Historical Commission banquet.”
Yawn city. “What are you wearing?”
“God only knows.” Her mother looks truly flustered. “Will you do my hair?”
“Sure. You could wear that new dress. The one you bought for dinner withthe guy.”
“No can do.” She waves a hairbrush. “It’s too much.”
“Too much... cleavage?”
Her mother gives a miserable shrug.
“Figure it out, because you can’t put a dress on once your hair’s done. I’ll get my stuff.” Natalie follows her mother up the stairs, turning into her own room for the styling products and the hair pins. She’ll do a French twist. That’s quick, and always a winner. She grabs her makeup kit on the way out. “Can I do your eyes?”
“Lightly?” her mother says from the bedroom. “I found a dress.”
Natalie pokes her head into the room, where her mother is squinting at a navy-blue dress on a hanger. “That’s nice. I mean, that color doesn’t say much, but the fabric is pretty.”
Her mother frowns. “I was going to get rid of this and now I don’t remember why.”
“Find me downstairs on the couch?”
Natalie sets up in the living room, all the pins lined up on the back of the sofa. Her mother hurries down two minutes later, carrying a clutch purse and a pair of navy heels so cheugy that Natalie has never bothered to borrow them.
“Can you finish the zipper and do the hook and eye?” her mother asks, dropping the shoes.
“Sure, but sit down.” As soon as she lands on the sofa in front of her, Natalie pushes her hair out of the way and fiddles with the hook above the zipper. “There’s no... thing? It’s just the hook, but no loop.”
“Shit. I knew there was something wrong with this dress. Maybe we can find a really small safety pin in the sewing box?”
“Where’s the sewing box? Oh—wait.” It’s actually in her room. Natalie turns and jogs upstairs again. Luckily, the sewing box is easily located under a pair of dirty leggings and a hoodie.
Downstairs, she hands the box to her mother. Then she grabs the brush and stands behind the couch, taming her mother’s hair. It feels misty from the shower.
“We don’t have a tiny safety pin,” she grumbles. “We don’t even have a medium one. It’s only these honkers.” She holds up a fat safety pin. “I’ll have to change. Or cancel. I’d rather cancel.”
“Got a needle? I can tack it.”
