Page 7 of Loving Lauren
Sierra cleared her throat, eyes twinkling. “Joe, I swear, if you turn this into a weekly series, I’m promoting you to hallway monitor.” That set them off again.
Joe looked half-mortified, half-proud. “It’s a good thing I’m already sitting down.”
“Charcoal and comedy. You’re hitting your stride.” Sierra turned and walked back to her desk, grinning.
By the time class ended, the air felt looser somehow, like the group had stopped pretending life wasn’t messy. They packed up supplies with lazy chatter and promises to practice at home.
Joe hung back, clutching his sketchpad as if it might shield him from the memory. “Hey. Sorry again for... you know... that noise.”
Sierra waved him off. “You gave the class its most authentic moment of the day and that’s art.”
He laughed under his breath, a little embarrassed. “You’re alright, Miss S.”
“You too, Joe. One fart per class, though. I’ve got standards.”
“Understood. I’ll pace myself.”
The door shut behind him. Sierra stood there for a moment, taking in the silence with a sense of comfort. She looked around the empty room, something steady settling in her chest.
This was where she belonged.
That evening, the smell of fried chicken hit her as soon as she walked into her parents’ house.
The scent triggered a memory: oven-baked bread, holiday cinnamon, her mother’s off-key humming as she basted a golden dish.
“Hey, sweetie!” Her mom stepped out of the kitchen, cheeks pink from the heat, hair pinned back in her usual no-nonsensetwist. She hugged Sierra tight, then leaned back to study her face as if she were checking for signs of neglect.
Her dad leaned over from the recliner to kiss her temple. “There’s my girl.”
Thalia called from the dining room. “Dinner’s ready, and if you let the rolls go cold again, I’m staging a coup.”
Sierra strolled through the hallway, her camera bag tapping her hip.
The walls still held every oddball family photo her mom refused to replace, including a tragic one of Tobias with a bowl cut and both middle fingers bandaged from a mysterious “science project.”
Tobias sprawled across the couch like a dethroned prince, with a comic book on his chest, wearing mismatched socks.
“You’re late. The mashed potatoes were about to send out a search party.”
Sierra nudged his foot off the armrest. “You ever gonna sit on furniture like a regular person?”
“Define regular.” He flipped a page.
The table groaned under the weight of the dinner. Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, green beans cooked with bacon, biscuits steaming in a basket lined with a faded kitchen towel.
Thalia offered the butter as currency and glared at Sierra until she accepted a roll.
Midway through passing the corn, Tobias grinned. “So, how’s your charcoal cult? Still making people cry over shading?”
“It’s an art class, Tobias.”
“Sure it is.”
Sierra smirked. “How’s your doomsday armor made of duct tape?”
“In progress. Testing phase begins this weekend. There will be impact trials and quite possibly a fire element.”
Their dad shook his head with a smile and said nothing.
