Chapter Two, Continued:

Okay, so getting back to Chapter Two. (May I remind you of what I just said. "M'kay." Alright?)



"I want you to send out an email to Dylan, Sarah, and Lila--they are who you're inviting right?" My mom paused. I nodded in comformation.
"Yep!"
"Okay," she said, "send out an email with all the New York information."
I had spotted a flaw.

"But--" I began. Not surprisingly, she guessed what I was going to say.

"I'm going to right down all the info," she smiled. "Here, come into the kitchen where I can find something to write with." I skipped into our bright, cheery kitchen behind my mom. I lounged against the table, observing the perfect, overcast day outside. My mom was rustling through various drawers, muttering to herself.

"Goodness gracious, those boys never put anything back...Where is that pencil? Aha! Here's a pen--nope, all dry...should have known...those boys...oh, there's that card...why in the world that was in there...Ha! Here we go!" She emerged triumphantly, clutching a jagged piece of notebook paper and a pencil. "Let's see, Emma..." I waited patiently as her hand flew across the paper, filling it with her neat, precise handwriting. After another minute, she snatched the paper up and handed it to me, flinging the pencil back in the drawer. "Everything's on there. Departure dates and times, a general agenda, pick-up times...It's all there."

"Coolio," I grinned, glancing at the sheet. Whoa, I thought. She really did put everything in there. The whole sheet was crammed top to bottom with writing. Good thing I was a fast typer. I started to walk out of the kitchen, still looking at the paper, but almost ran into Jason, my seventeen-year-old brother.

"Whoa," he held up his hands, grinning, "watch it, little sis." I stuck my tongue out at him and darted around his lean frame.

"Emma?"

I halted and wheeled around to face Mom.

"Please give your room a quick pick-up before dinner," she said, brushing a strand of thick, brunette hair out of her face. I groaned.

"Young lady," she began sternly, "if it's that bad I don't know why I let you have a slumber party."

I shrugged sulkily, immediately sensing the two things beneath her words. One, that my room shouldn't have been that messy in the first place. Two, she just let me have a slumber party. I chewed my tongue and nodded reluctantly. Busy at the counter behind Mom, Jason heaved an exagerated sigh, tsking.

"Ah, if only you'd cleaned up your room Thursday instead of bugging me about downloading your ipod songs," he said, shaking his head. "Too bad."

I treated him to a glare.

"It's not that bad, honest," I wheedled, turning my attention back to Mom.

"Nontheless," she said in a voice that invited no argument, "make sure it's cleaned by dinner."

Chewing my tongue to keep from growling, I whirled around and marched past the living room, up the stairs, and into my white-carpeted bedroom. Ignoring a lump of laundry by the door, and crossed over to my desk and sat down. Spinning on the office chair to face the monitor, I shook the mouse to wake the computer up and opened internet explorer. I went to gmail.com and signed in, tapping my finger impatiently on the mouse as it loaded. After I entered my email and password, I clicked 'New.' I stared at the blank email, thinking.

I glanced around my room for inspiration. My full-sized bed with a heather-green comforter, a small nightstand supporting my digital alarm clock and a lava lamp, a large chest of drawers with a hamster cage, lamp, tissue box, and several framed pictures placed on it, my puppy calendar hanging on the wall over my bed, the sliding door to my closet, and the furry, turqoise turtle chair with the third book to my all-time favorite series, Maximum Ride, thrown in the middle of it. The Maximum Ride book series is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Totally. Once I'd discovered what an absolute sensation it was, I'd persuaded Dylan to read it. She was on the first book, The Angel Experiment, while I had finished the most recent book, The Final Warning, and was waiting for the fifth to come out. I stared absentmindedly at the book's glossy cover. To restrain myself from blackmailing the author to hurry up with the fifth book, I was rereading the third book, Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports. I shifted in the swively chair and started typing, watching the inky black letters appear on the fresh email like rows of little ants.






Hi Everybody, I typed,



I'll have told you about this already, but here's the official invitation and information.

For my 14th b-day, I'm going to New York, New York for a week. My parents and my younger brother are going. You should all be at my house at 11 o'clock on June 12th. Pack for a seven day trip, and make sure to bring a swimsuit (and swimming stuff), as we'll be swimming at the hotel pool. It's about a 9 hour flight to NY, so I suggest you bring something to entertain yourself on the plane. I'm bringing my ipod, and you might want to bring yours if you have one, and we'll have some games and stuff. The hotel we're staying at is the Roosevelt Hotel New York located on the corner of East 45th St. and Madison Ave., room 709. On June 19th, plan to have your parents pick you up at 3 o'clock. We will call on the way back if we are going to be earlier or later than that time. Hope ya'll can come!!

I'm inviting Dylan, Sarah, and Lila.

Contact #s:

My mom's cell: 864-567-9872

My dad's cell: 864-525-0434

My home phone: 864-922-6745

Can't wait!!


I sat back in my seat with a satisfied sigh. After quickly rereading it for errors, I punched 'send' and glanced around at my clock. Almost dinner time. Already, I could smell the apetizing scent of lasagna. I drew in a deep breathe through my nose, savoring the warm, meaty odor.


I leaned back and stretched my hands before me, yawning. Giving myself a shake, I heaved off my comfortable desk chair and loped across the floor to the laundry pile. T-shirts, jean shorts, a forlorn sock here and there, and several other items of clothing lay scattered in a dissaray. Shaking my head slightly, I leaned over and scooped as much laundry as I could carry into my arms. I toddered to my bathroom and dumped the whole thing into the laundry hamper. Then I went back for the remaining clothes.
After twenty more minutes off picking up clothes, straightening trinkets and knick-knacks on my dresser, picking up a fallen potted plant, arranging my bookshelves, and sweeping up the hamster sawdust off my dresser, I finally finished just as my mom's shout made me jump.


"Dinner!" I heard her yell from in the kitchen. With an anticipating grin, and dashed out of my room and took the stairs three at a time. Sweeping past the living room, I skidded in my socks on the linoleum kitchen floor. Behind me, Andrew, my dark-haired, blue-eyed, eleven-year-old brother trundled to the kitchen table. Unlike Jason and I, who took after our tall father, Andrew had inherited my mother's stockiness to his secret regret. Andrew absolutely loved basketball, but was greatly miffed that he was always one of the last to pick for teams at his school. For those of you out there with question marks written all over your face, basketball generally requires tall people. That's why you always see those ten-foot tall people on the professional teams. Pretty sad that I know that, huh? I know. I try to block out his voice whenever Andrew starts chattering about basketball, the rules, the regulations, the players, the ball, even different team's uniforms, but sadly, I apparantly picked up something.


Walking to the table, I sat down between Mom's place and Andrew.


"Jason," my mom said quickly, looking over her shoulder from her position at the stove, "don't hold it like that. Here, use an oven mitt and put a hand under it."


Jason applied the oven mitt and carried the lasagna pan to the table. Setting it down, he went back for cuttlery. Jason was Mom's undisputed kitchen helper. Though Andrew and I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the counters, and Dad cooked sometimes, I could tell that Jason and Mom did not fully appreciate us getting under their feet in the kitchen. Usually, next to Mom's main dishes, Jason cooked a side dish of unique look and taste. Sometimes it was an unknown soup with chunks of eggplant amid the thick broth. Other times, it was an equally disgusting-sounding casserole that, despite its looks, topped the family's list of favorite foods. Once, Jason even spent all afternoon cooking bouillabaisse, a French fish stew. I have to admit, the bouillabaisse definitely did not top our list, although Dad ate four helpings. Someday, I am convinced, Jason's favorite hobby would make him the best cook in the world.


"Soup's on," Jason said cheerfully as he sat down to Dad's left, eyeing a pan of cornbread. Seeing him looking at it, I glanced at is also before taking a drink of ice water. Then I took a second look at the cornbread, which, I realized, was not cornbread, but some other type of bread. The telltale chunks of--what were those--penetrating the steaming, golden-brown crust told me it was another one of Jason's bound-to-be-delicious dishes.

When Mom had hastily wiped her hands a dishtowel, and everyone was seated comfortably around the cherrywood table, Dad bowed his head and we followed suite. He prayed, thanking the Lord for the meal and asking Him to bless it, asking for guidance and wisdom from Him in our lives, and thanking Him for the opportunity of the New York trip and praying for safety. He also prayed for Andrew's finger, which had been trapped between our car's sliding door, and was now infected. As he prayed, I felt a sense of calm and peace steal over me. I felt my heart lift two ribs, swelling in my chest for no reason other than the presence of the Holy Spirit. Thank you, Lord, I prayed silently.

"Amen," my father finished solemnly. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. His blue eyes, a lighter, brighter shade than mine, met mine. The tanned skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. He drew in a deep breathe, closing his eyes momentarily. Then they snapped open, his eyes twinkling.

"What is that delicious smell?" He said, rubbing his hands and glancing around the table. His eyes fell on Jason's dish. Again, his eye wrinkles showed as he exchanged a look with Jason.

"I haven't come up with a name for it yet," Jason said half-apolegitically. "I just know there's a name for it somewhere, but everytime I get close to finding it--poof! It's gone."

I giggled, looking at Jason. Jason's face cracked into a grin, and he dug a serving spoon into the mealy bread.

"Want some, Emma?" He held up an appetizing (note, that's sarcasm, people) chunk of the bread. I could see part of a long, green thing dangling out of its yellow side.

"Not that much, thanks," I laughed, holding up my plate. "I'll take a smaller piece. Then we'll see if this unknown dish is worth anything."
Jason lobbed a hunk of it on my plate, but before eating it, I served myself some of everything on the table except the green beans. I can't stand green beans. Period. I picked up my fork and cut off a corner of my lasagna square, popping it into my mouth.
"Mmm..." I mumbled, chewing luxiriously with my molars, immediately hungry for more. Swallowing, I scooped up another piece. Then I tried out Jason's unnamed bread. Placing the piece cautiously on the middle of my tongue, so I would get the full flavor, I let my saliva seep through the crumbly piece before chewing it slowly. As my taste buds recieved the full taste of it, I stopped chewing momentarily. Wow. I started chewing again, grinding the moist piece into miniscule grains and swallowing. It was good. Trying not to be hasty, I cut myself a larger bite and shoved (not that I'm a pig or anything) it into my mouth. The moist, crumbly bread had a slight tang of onion, and the mysterious green things contrasted appropriately with the bread texture, making a small crunch. Around me, my family conversed pleasantly amid the occasional sound of a fork hitting a plate and the tinkle of ice being shook in glasses.
"Jim," Mom addressed Dad, "what did Doctor Ralph say about Andrew's finger?"
Dad cut deep into a wedge of Jason's bread. "He said it was amazing the finger hadn't been broken and he's to be very careful. Andrew's been postponed on all sports and he's not to bang around in case he damages it more."
Andrew groaned and jutted his lower lip out in a pout. Dad ignored him.
"On the way back from the appointment, I got the prescription he advised," he said, nodding toward a lumpy CVS bag laying on the counter.
"Oh?" said Mom.
"Yes," Dad mumbled through a mouthful of bread. He swallowed. "Some sort of salv. 'To be rubbed on injury every night.'"
"It's gross, Mom," Andrew piped up, "it looks like like a cross between avacado dip and brown sludge. Do I really have to wear it?" he wheedled.
"You will if you want that finger to heal," said Mom sternly. "Now eat those beans; they're good for you."
"Why?" Andrew demanded. "Why do you always say that the yucky things are good for me?"
"Because I put special growth hormones in them," quipped Jason, looking up at his younger brother, his grey eyes twinkling. Andrew's eyes widended. Mom shot Jason a look and turned back to Andrew,
"Lots of things are good for you," she smiled, looking at my dad for help.
"That's right, young man," said my father in his deep voice, "you eat those good beans."
Andrew kicked his feet under the table, but ate his green beans without complaint. I, on the other hand, absolutely refused to eat those despised, twig-like green things my mom had wordlessly put on my plate. I wrinkled my nose at them, feeling Mom's gaze on me. I shot a hasty glance at Mom. Then I defiantly ate another bite of lasagna, staring stonily past Mom's shoulder. I saw her sigh and shake her head, moving her fork over her peaches.
"Hey," I said to Jason a few minutes later, waving a forkful of his bread toward him, "I have an idea for a name."
"Oh, yeah?" said Jason in mild curiosity. "What's that?"
"You'll need a perfect name for it because the dish is absolutely perfect, right?" I said, hiding a smile. The rest of the family glanced up in various stages of interest.
"Yeah..." Jason peered at me, unsure of where I was going. "Spit it out."
"Well, why don't you name it after me?" I said brightly. "Fantabulous Emma Bread (ah, my ability for creative names just keeps showing, doesn't it?)!"
"Fantabulous?" said Andrew skeptically.
"Emma Bread?" snorted Jason. A hint of a scowl crossed my face. Dad quickly hid his grin in his cup of icewater. Mom glanced between me and my brothers, a smile on her face.
"Why not?" she said calmly. Jason and Andrew stared at her as though she'd sprouted whiskers.
"Fantabulous Emma Bread?" Jason said, looking between Mom and I like this was some kind of joke. "Come on--you've got to be kidding me. I mean, it's--it's--" He waved his hands, obviously searching for a phrase to describe its horridness.
"It's what?" said my dad, and I could tell he was holding back a laugh with difficulty. "It seems a perfectly reasonable name to me."
Jason let out a derisive sound through his nose.
"I refuse to have any of my cooking named something like Fantabulous Emma Bread," Jason said stormily. "If you ever make an unnamed dish, she can name it Emma's-Beautimosity-of-a-Dish for all I care. But no way am I having a masterpiece like that made into a laughing stock," he finished, motioning to his "masterpiece."
"Suite yourself," I said disdainfully. "Dad, can you pass me the Fantabulous Bread?"
"Certainly, honey," Dad chuckled, handing me Jason's bread.
Jason looked ready to explode.

§Emma§