The next day for Mireh was—Does it need to be put into words?
Lying in bed.
Staring at the specks of dust floating in her room.
Blinking.
Breathing.
Checking her phone for a text or call from Retta and hoping for one yet not hoping for one. Hoping that maybe, somehow, Retta would text saying, “Oops, I goofed. Turns out I'm gonna live forever!”
That would be the kind of mistake she would make.
If only she would make it, right?
She wanted to text Retta. Text her and make sure she was still alive. She typed out a message, a short and simple one asking how she was doing. But she hit the backspace button.
She typed out another message, a different short and simple one asking if she was all right. But then she hit the backspace button.
She typed out a third message, a—
She hit the backspace button.
Knock knock.
“Miriam, breakfast is ready,” her dad said from the other side of the door.
“...”
She got up and headed for the dining room, where her parents were seated with their plates before them. Scrambled eggs, toast, two strips of veggie bacon. Cooked to perfection by Mireh's dad. It looked good. Smelled good, too. On any other morning.
This morning, though, Mireh felt like she was looking at the plastic moldings food companies used on their package covers. She thought if she stuck her fork in her eggs, it'd bounce off. She thought if she bit into a strip of bacon, it'd taste like rubber. She thought if she spread butter on her toast, it wouldn't melt, because the toast would be cold. She thought if you blindfolded her and had her guess what she was chewing on, food would be the last guess she would make.
“How was the festival last night?” Mom asked Mireh.
“It was fun,” Mireh said. “We brought another classmate with us.”
“What's their name?” Dad asked.
“Temera.”
“Is that a boy name or a girl name?”
“Girl, Dad.”
“Don't be so noisy,” Mom told him. “If she wants to hang out with boys from her class, let her.”
“I didn't say she couldn't, I just want to make sure that she knows who she's friends with and is safe with them.”
“You sound like such a typical overprotective father.”
“She's my only daughter.”
“And you're my only husband, but you don't worry about me hanging out with another man.”
“Because you already have me.”
“And who says you're all I need?”
“?!”
Mom and Dad were talking, and Mireh was putting small bites of her plastic eggs into her mouth.
Chewing.
Swallowing.
Forgetting they were there.
“Because I've got parents, too, you know.”
Thinking of Retta.
Mireh had had breakfast at Retta's place a few times before, so she could imagine how that scene was playing out now.
Retta's dad was at one end of the table, Retta's mom was at the other, and Retta was stuck between them. Her chair was always positioned in the middle of the table, but whenever she got in it, she scooted it closer to her dad. Her mom didn't notice, or if she did notice, she didn't say anything. She spent her breakfasts sipping coffee and reading the paper.
“How was the festival last night? Did you take plenty of pictures for me?” Retta's dad probably asked her.
“Sure did! Wanna see them?” Retta probably said, probably taking out her phone.
“Oh, cool!” Retta's dad probably said as he looked at the photos.
“I know, right! I even got to see a Swivlers act.”
“No waaaaaay! Please tell me you recorded that,” Retta's dad probably hoped.
“You bet I did!” Retta probably said.
“You've got my vote for daughter of the year,” Retta's dad probably said. “But don't tell Mireh. It'll be our little secret.”
“I won't tell. Promise,” Retta probably said.
“Are you still going to see the Flight tonight with Mireh at the equator?” Retta's mom probably asked.
“We should be,” Retta probably said. “But she also said she might not be able to make it.”
“That'd be a shame,” Retta's mom probably said. “If you two do go, be careful, please, all right?”
“Yes, Mom,” Retta probably said.
Probably
that's how it went.
Or probably
it never did.
Mireh took out her phone and typed out a message from under the table. And then deleted it. She stared at her text message screen for as long as she dared before putting it away.
“Are you all right, Miriam?” her dad asked.
Mireh was playing with her eggs. She looked up at him, and he looked at her, worried. Mom, too. She swallowed what was in her mouth and muttered, “I'm fine. Just not that hungry.”
Her mom reached across the table and placed her hand against her forehead. She didn't fight her off like she normally did. “You don't seem to be running a fever.” She withdrew her hand. “Are you sure you're all right? Did something happen at the festival last night?”
Mireh lowered her face. “Yes, but...I don't want to talk about it.”
“Oh, sweetie, you know you can talk to us about anything,” Mom said.
Dad nodded in agreement.
“I know. But—” A lump in her throat. She cleared it. “Is it all right if I tell you later?”
“Of course. Tell us when you feel comfortable,” Dad said.
“Thank you.” Mireh stood up, her plate unfinished. “I've had my fill. Thank you for breakfast.” And then she returned to her bedroom.567Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ46JL4HeGG
