Ket slammed his fist against the bathtub knob to shut the water off. He stood on his tip-toes to place the shower-head back in its holster. He reached down to the drain, pulling up the knot of hair, and the water appeared to thank him passively as it went on its merry way to whatever swamp it would wind up in.
He drew the plastic privacy door; a loose ball-bearing slid unseen but heard somewhere in the bar overhead. It rested to a stop, ready to be tossed back the other way. The towel was retrieved, smelled, and determined beyond prime. He used it to dry his feet, threw it to the floor, and went toward the sink to retrieve a fresh one.
By his foot the stepping stool was negotiated to the counter. He stood with the towel still around his shoulders, gazing at his reflection. It yawned. His tongue felt heavy. He scratched it against his molars, scraping the morning breath away as best he could. Drops of water still clung to his whiskers, he rubbed them away with thumb and forefinger.
Absently he reached for the toothbrush and paste, coating the bristles with a generous amount. He brushed, and brushed, and brushed. Much longer than he normally did, and much more thoroughly. When he spat the froth into the sink, it was tinted red. He used the rinsing cup until the diluted blood was invisible.
Then came the mouthwash, which he left in for forty-five seconds. Tears welled up in his eyes, and when he leaned back to gargle they fell down his cheeks and mixed with the water dripping off his scalp.
Last came the hardest part—his hair. He rarely combed his hair, never used gel—didn't have gel. It usually ordered itself after the shower, falling into place. But of course now it decided to throw itself everywhere, like he had the coolest idea to stick his head inside the cow's mouth and just let it go to town.
The comb was snatched, and he winced every time he broke one of the few knots boys ever have.
That finally done, towel around his waist, he walked toward his room. On the way he glanced about the main upstairs; it was very clean. Mom helped him, and though he didn't really want to he did a thorough job over the weekend. It helped pass time, anyway. Everything was in order.
"Good morning, Anpu," he said to the jackal-headed figurine, which stood guard over his dresser-drawer. It seemed a bit insulting to have the first guardian of the scales watch over his underwear, but so far the figurine hadn't come to life and strangled him in his sleep, much less destroyed his soul. "What should I wear?"
He slid open the drawer and peered inside; a rainbow of colors met him. At once he realized this would be harder than he thought. Normally he just snagged whatever shirt he happened to get, and then a pair of jeans. He'd purposefully gotten shirts that would at least go with his jeans or shorts in any combination, so that he wouldn't have to think about it. But now that he was thinking about it, nothing seemed to match up just right.
His fingers fell upon the shirts and he slid them over, trying to match a color to his fur. Red, green, black, white, orange, yellow and blue. Only three colors looked good. Losing patience, he decided on blue and plucked a dark-navy shirt with a robot graphic on it. His head was getting too big for the neck. Mom would get him more clothes for Christmas, like she usually did. He may have to sacrifice a few articles for the first present he'd ever really asked for.
Not fully satisfied, he cracked his knuckles and took a slow breath, in and out. The air was a bit stuffy, smelled a little too. He sniffed again: cinnamon. His sinuses started itching. Great. Thanks mom.
Back into the main room—a final cursory sweep, reassured that at least this room was pretty much perfect. Heading toward the stairs, a second smell invaded his nostrils, and it was a very welcomed smell indeed. His stomach roused, ushering him toward the warm and fluffy aroma. With light steps he descended—he wanted to catch mom cooking in the act, for such a thing was of myth and legends.
As he ventured deeper into the first story, the miasma of pancakes made him weak at the knees. He licked his lips, tasting sweet syrup and warm, oily butter melting into the grains of his tongue. By the time he rounded the corner of the kitchen the prospect of his mom actually cooking was forgotten; all that went through his mind was paaaaaaaan-caaaaakes...
"Good morning, honey! Ready for breakfast?"
"Holy—!"
He had no time to comprehend the change in his mother's color of fur before he heard Emeral's voice greet him. Her bid was like a football player running at him at thirty miles an hour. It slammed into him, made him step back. His rump scooted into a chair. The chair slid, humming on the tile floor. He fell onto it, and then it tipped over, clashing downward right next to his head.
The spatula clattered onto the counter. "Ohmygoshareyouokay?"
A hand tugged at his. He started to sit up, bonked his head on a knob of the table's underside, and muttered the vulgarity which he previously did not get to exclaim.
"You weren't s'posta fall over," she said, laying a hand on his head to buffer another lump as she guided him back up and out from under the table.
"Oh, Ket?" Mom's voice came from her room, and became louder as she drew near, "We're having pancakes for breakfast and Emmy is—" she arrived at the kitchen, "Oh. I guess you already know."
Ket shook his head, and then saw something happen when his mom and friend stared at each other. A message was passed, in a way he'd seen happen at school between girls sometimes. How it worked, he did not know, because there were no tell-tale signs of data or words or electricity that passed between them, and yet that was exactly what seemed to happen.
"So," Miss Rachaun began, "If we're all here, who's cooking the pancakes?"
The air became a little charred. "Oh no!" Emeral sprang up and ran to the stool, snatching the spatula. "No-no-no-no-no..." she whimpered, scraping and scratching the sliver of plastic between sizzling buttermilk and pan. Six pancakes were spread out on two pans; four on one stovetop, two on another. Each were different in size and shape—if they were a shape—and the stove hissed angrily as she fought to retrieve each one. She went for the first four, scratching them out and onto two plates, and upon the third plate were placed the last two crispy wafers.
"Everything all right?" Miss Rachaun asked as they approached.
"Yeah-yeah, everything's cool." Emeral slid the two plates with better morsels over, "Hot'n'fresh," she said with presentation.
Ket ignored them and reached for the marred plate.
"Not that one!" Emeral began forcing the plate with better cakes into his hand, "These are the best."
He lurched on his tiptoes and nabbed the blackened plate. "These look good, though," he said.
Miss Rachaun watched them as she set her plate down.
"No they're not they're burnt."
"S'fine with me," he spoke passively.
She held the plate in his hands, "But I want you to have these," she protested, good plate balancing on her left palm.
"But I want these," he argued back. Just to ensure his success, he picked one of the pancakes up, gave it a gratifying lick, and set it back upon the other, licked-side down so as to ensure his saliva marked both.
Emeral let go of the plate in vocalized disgust.
With a satisfied smirk, Ket turned—only to come face-to-thigh with his mother. He looked up at her, her hair hanging down like a scolding curtain. He swallowed.
She extended her hand. "Give," she commanded, as if her son was a dog.
"But I lic—"
"I saw," she said, pulsing her hand to repeat the command. Her son's ears melded with his head, creating a seamless scalp. His whiskers formed a mustache. He set the plate into her hand. "Good boy. Emmy wants you to eat the ones she has, and she'll have the ones on the table, agreed?"
Even though the white tigress was not directly included in this moment of paternal judgment, she couldn't help but quietly join her friend in saying the words, "Yes, ma'am."
Subdued, Ket trudged over to the table and pulled out a seat for his friend. She thanked him as she took her place, and set the plate she had held, a little more carefully now, a couple feet to her side.
"Sit next to me?"
He nodded, and lifted up the chair that he'd knocked over, climbing aboard.
Miss Rachaun worked the butter-laden knife across the pancakes like an artist—a skill which all moms have. The butter did not melt as well, since the kids' little quarrel was just enough time to let much of the precious heat escape. But melt the butter did, a little bit. All that was left was the syrup. A bottle of raspberry flavor was already set on the table.
"Kids first," said Ket's mom.
"Ket first," Emeral said, reaching for the bottle and sliding it over to him. With the back of his hand, he slid it back to her.
"Ladies first," he said, a little lowly.
Emmy acquiesced, drizzling the sugary red liquid over her breakfast.
They ate quietly at first. The only sounds in the kitchen were the forgettable ticking of a clock, the rustle of napkin to lips, and the scrape of metal against porcelain. The sky began to break outside. In the unlit kitchen, light ebbed and brightened at whim as the Earth played peek-a-boo with the sun. Every now and then the ladies would glance around. Emeral looked mostly out of the window to her left, catching a car in her periphery only to have it elude her focus. Miss Rachaun looked at the remaining cleanup still to do, wondering if she would have time to do it all before work the next day—or earlier if someone decided to call in.
Ket busily ate, and so focused was he on the task that of course he finished first. He set his fork down with a declarative clink.
"Geez," Emeral said, though the volume of her voice, while not loud, felt like she was shouting against the silence. "Did you even taste it?"
He nodded. "It was good," he said.
"How good?"
The question made his fur stand a little. "It was good," he repeated, more emphatically than before.
"But it wasn't great?"
"No, no they are great—"
"You said they were just 'good'."
"But I meant...uh..." Ket's eyes shifted nervously.
His mom broke in for him mercifully, "They're wonderful, Emmy. Even these."
"Thank you!" She replied, with a little nod and eating the last bit of her meal. She set her fork down with declaration and wiped syrup-dribble off of her chin with a fresh napkin. Away from her view her plate was swept. She followed it to see Ket carrying it over to the sink.
He set them down on the counter and moved his stool over to the sink beds, reached over to turn on the water, and started running the plates through.
"What a sweet boy," his mom said, "Washing his friend's plate off."
He ignored her.
"You should wash your plates off more often, dear. It'd help me out a lot."
"Don't I?" He asked, giving her a look, trying to emulate the secretive communication he'd seen ten minutes ago.
His mom smiled. "Why don't you two head on upstairs? I'll take care of things down here."
Emeral nodded with an "Oh-tay," like a little rascal, and went to get Ket's hand. With the sink still running, she pulled him away from the stool, though he resisted a little, and then led him to the stairs. By the time they reached the foot of the flight, he took the lead, each step with a heavy footfall.
