Page 21 of Pucked Up Plans
“When did you move in?”
She motions for me to have a seat at a black card table situated against the wall with three folding chairs around it. The sink’s full of dishes, but what there is of the small counter space is clear.
“About a month ago.” She sets to work on our dinner, pulling a bag of nuggets from the freezer. “How many will Lennon eat?” I’m too busy focused on her ass, I miss the meaning of her question. Thankfully, she holds the bag up for me, cluing me in.
Trying for nonchalance, I answer with a lilted, “Three?”
A bob of her head, she declares, “I’ll make a few extras just in case. Aubrey might enjoy a few with her chili.”
“I still can’t believe she eats chili. My mother’s going to want to meet you.”
The words slip out of my mouth unintended.My mother’s going to want to meet you?Um, what? Why would I even say that? What does it even mean? Why would she want to meet Tate? Beyond the obvious. She’s beautiful, is raising an adorable and polite daughter…
I derail this line of thinking at the sight of Tate’s cheeks flushing red. Because I just suggested she meet my mother. I’d blame the fact I was tired from practice today, but Coach let us go early, so it was a short one. Not sure what’s gotten into me.
Tate.Tate’s what’s gotten into me.
Tate still staring at me, I cough to cover up my asinine statement, changing the subject. “How did you find out about Apple Tree Preschool?” There, a safe topic.
She ponders her response for a few seconds, to shake away the memory of what I said. “My aunt suggested it. She knows the owner who pulled some strings to find a spot for Aubrey. She’s only been there two full weeks, but she already loves it. I thought the transition was going to be tougher for her, but she seems adjusted and wakes up every morning eager to attend.” The trance broken, she continues working—nuggets on a tray for the toaster, chili heating in a pot on the stove.
It’s not a gourmet meal, but she’s comfortable in the kitchen, juggling the numerous foods, pouring milk into sippy cups, plating carrots and grapes. On autopilot, she moves around the small space. Megan can barely boil water, and while she’s competent enough to cook frozen foods, she would have checked and rechecked the bag for directions several times.
Again, I force my thoughts away from drifting down a path they shouldn’t go.
“It’s an excellent school. This is Lennon’s second year. She already told me she plans to stay there for kindergarten too.”
Tate swivels around. “Is that an option? I didn’t realize they offered a kindergarten class.”
I chuckle. “No. Pre-k5 is the highest they go. I hate to break her heart so early in the year this is her last year. Better to enjoy the bliss for as long as possible.”
“Gotcha. I’m glad there’s a cutoff date of September first. Aubrey wasn’t ready for kindergarten this year.”
“Same for Lennon. Not about being ready, but her birthday’s in September.”
“Aubrey too. The fifteenth.”
“Huh. Lennon’s is the eighteenth.”
Weird.
Tate seems to read into that connection as well, looking as if she wants to say more but instead gets back to work. Soon after, she calls down the hall, “Dinner’s in five minutes. Bean, set the timer.” My confused expression must give me away as Tate continues. “She knows she needs to wash up before meals. She likes routine, so she sets a timer on her Echo once I give her the warning.”
Damn. I don’t know whether to be impressed with how obedient Aubrey seems or to be thankful Lennon’s not that rigid. The whole “five more minutes” seems to go in one ear and out the other with Lennon most of the time. It’s not all her fault when the adults don’t stick to the rule.
Almost exactly four minutes later, the water turns on down the hall, Aubrey’s voice coaxing Lennon to make sure she washes her hands too. I listen for the complaints from my daughter, but surprisingly, they don’t come. What I hear are their footstepsthundering down the hall, the two appearing in the kitchen a few seconds later.
“Washed up, Mommy.” Aubrey takes a seat in the chair facing the wall and points to a chair for Lennon. Without a word, Lennon slips into the seat Aubrey suggests, waiting patiently for the next direction.
“Len, you feeling okay?” I don’t mean for the comment to sound so alarming or to imply she’s sick, but who is this kid, and what has she done with my daughter?
“My tummy’s just hungry.” She eyes the plate of food Tate puts in front of her, noticeably lacking any kind of sauce. “You got ranch?” She peers up at Tate inquisitively.
“And she’s fine,” I mutter to myself, holding in my laughter. It’s a rude way to ask for something as a guest. However, Tate doesn’t seem fazed by it, yet it’s Aubrey who hops out of the chair to cater to my daughter’s demands. “Manners, Lennon,” I insert, mindful of the lack of my own.
“Can I please get some ranch?” she amends, only slightly better. I add it to my mental list of things to work on with her.
Aubrey hands her a bottle, a different kind than she’s accustomed to. And I predict what’s coming even before her face scrunches in disgust.
