chapter three | cream of wheat

I'm not a religious person, and my parents aren't religious people, but here I was, sitting on a pew waiting for my cue to start belting on hymns. There were probably a couple hundred people surrounding me. I was ready for the off-tune harmonies to begin. I also wasn't a musical person, and I really couldn't tell the difference between off key and, well, on key. I don't mean to offend anyone who is indeed religious, but I honestly did not understand why there were so many songs made about Amazing Grace or world peace. As you could probably tell, I'm not exactly the most attentive person in church.

I asked her why we attended church if we weren't religious. In her defense, we were in the chapel at the time. She simply glared at me, gestured me to shut my mouth, and continue listening to the sermon. When we got in the car, she lectured me about being disrespectful. I was positive that it was some sort of publicity thing. Although, such a thing would be pointless because she was no longer in the limelight or the lemonlight, if that even existed. When would she learn that the public no longer cared about her actions? Sure, if she did something drastic like murder someone they'd bring up Penelope Sharp and how Hollywood corrupts its stars. That was the type of publicity Mom would label "bad publicity." She informed me that such a thing existed.

I doubted that anyone would recognize her as the beloved Penelope Sharp. I doubted that a current photo of her was even on the Internet for her a stalker to find. The only people who probably watched the show were the elderly who had nothing to do or the insomniacs who caught an occasional rerun. Or the "vintage" makeup artists who viewed old videos of her on YouTube or something.

I suspected that my mother lived in the past. She really missed her glamorous Hollywood days. Dad was always supportive of her and tried to lift her out of the rut she would get stuck in sometimes.

We suggested that she should audition for some of the plays at the local theater downtown. She'd get a role for sure with her impressive resume. Granted it was over fifteen years when she acted last, but I'm sure a good portion of the talent was still there. A misty look appeared in her eyes as she shook her head, reminiscing no doubt. I swore I heard her sniffle. "No. Those days are long gone and behind me."

She was being dramatic. It was in her nature and she would never shed that trait. I didn't understand why she wouldn't pursue acting again, even if it was only amateur. It was her passion and that was the only thing that mattered.

Instead, she spent her days a little less glitzy with a lot less luster. She was a real-estate agent. How she made the transition from actress to agent, I don't know. Again, not trying to offend any real-estate agents. I just didn't think she was satisfied with her life. Something needed to change.

And something did.

Dad and I were watching a game show on television and munching on Granny Smith apples he purchased at the Farmer's Market when Mom strutted in. Her face looked rejuvenated, like she just had a facial. For once, she looked completely happy. "You'll never guess what happened!" she squealed with pure delight.

We looked up. Dad was the first to respond. "What happened, honey?"

"Do you remember when you two insisted that I audition at the Eater Theater? Well, I stopped by to see if they needed any of my prestigious expertise, and they suggested that I'd be great for a part and should audition! They gave me a copy of the script!"

"That's great!" Dad enthused. He was so supportive, and I could only hope my future spouse was as happy for me as he was. Or maybe he was hoping for more takeout. Mom wasn't exactly the best cook, and he loved the Chinese restaurant about a mile from our house.

Mom beamed. "I know," she said proudly. "Think about it, though. This could be my big debut! Or would it be re-debut? I don't know. Either way, I could be a star again!"

The problem with giving my mother hope was that her hope levels were ridiculously high. Once she had her heart set on something, even if it was nearly impossible, she would do everything in her power to ensure that her wish was fulfilled. In this case, her optimism skyrocketed through the roof and to the moon and back.

Dad and I exchanged looks. We both knew she would never get a role like Penelope Sharp again. But it would be terribly cruel to crumble her new-found dream into billions of shards and pieces that we had built up with all the encouragement we gave her. We had no choice but to support her.

She frowned. "What?"

"Nothing, dear," Dad said quickly. "Like I said, I think that's wonderful."

"Yeah, Mom! I'm really happy for you."

She didn't doubt anything. "Auditions are next week,"--she pointed to my Dad--"so you'll have to do the cooking while I prepare." She looked at me. "And you help him, capisce?"

"Capisce," Dad and I chorused.

"Good," she said, satisfied. "I guess I better go read the script."

"Want to go to the office tomorrow?" Dad asked.

"Sure."

Mondays were slow in the office and Thursdays were the busiest. I like Wednesdays. It wasn't busy all day, but people actually showed up. But today wasn't Wednesday. It was Monday. So, naturally, I had nothing to do.

I wasn't complaining. I loved being in the office. Dentist offices had a particular aroma that I was addicted to. I just couldn't get enough. The cleanliness, the humming of drills, and the Disney movies that played softly in the background were all attractive components of being at my dad's dentistry. It also helped that the practice was named after me. It was originally called "Clouds Dentistry," since it was on Clouds Street, but he renamed it "Flossy & Co." after I was born. It wasn't really a company, but he liked the sound of the "& Co."

"I'm going to run to the bathroom real quick," Ginger said. "Do you think you can handle it until I get back?"

There was no one in the office and the next appointment scheduled was in twenty minutes. I nodded. "Go."

She smiled and dashed off. Ginger had cinnamon colored hair and thick hipster glasses that framed her face. She was a college student who worked here during the summer. Like me, she wanted to go into the dental field. Well, I guess she was already in it. She was probably hoping to get a job as a dental assistant (or something not in the office) after she got her degree. Dad liked her enough, so I assumed I would be seeing more of her in the years to come.

My phone buzzed. It was Eunice, the only person I really texted.

Eunice: Want to lunch?

Flossy: Can't. I'm at the office.

Eunice: I'll bring some to you.

Flossy: Just eat by yourself.

Eunice didn't like to go out and eat alone. She was perfectly fine with buying food and taking it home, but she refused to dine alone. She thought it was weird.

Eunice: You know I don't like to.

Flossy: You need to get over your fear.

Eunice: It's not a fear!

Flossy: Prove it.

Eunice: I'm going away for a week. Eat lunch with me.

Flossy: Fine.

Eunice: YAY! The Bakery?

Flossy: That's fine.

Eunice: Be there in twenty?

Flossy: Okay.

Eunice: ;D

Eunice liked having the last word, so I let her. For the next twenty minutes, I waited for Eunie to arrive. I would have to ask Dad for a quick cleaning after Eunice left if he had time. Knowing Eunice, she would pick the gooiest, stickiest, sickening-sweet item on the menu for me.

The bell above the door tinkled, signalling someone's--Eunice's--arrival. A warm, pleasant scent wafted past my nose. She was carrying a large, plastic bag filled to the brim with brown paper bags. She provided me a diverse number of options to select from. "I'm here!" she announced, throwing herself across the room and onto the cluttered magazine table. I made a mental note to straighten things up after she left.

I smiled. "We can go sit in the back if you want. Actually, I think it'd be better if we did. People might get the wrong idea about this place."

"What do you mean?" she asked, stuffing her mouth with a chocolate-filled cinnamon roll.

"This is a dentistry, Eunice. Think about it."

"Oh. Right. Okay. Let's go."

"I'll get the bag. You just finish your cinnamon roll."

Eunice shrugged and followed me to the breakroom. After wiping the frosting off her hands with a lemon-scented wet wipe (she always carried them in her bag), she listed off everything she bought. "I have a grilled cheese, chocolate cake, a chocolate cupcake, a triple chocolate chunk cookie, an Oreo cheesecake, and a croissant. What do you want?"

"The grilled cheese and the croissant, please!"

"I figured." She slid me the items and kept the rest for herself. "I also ordered you a strawberry and banana smoothie. I got myself an Oreo frappe."

"Thank you," I said, taking a sip of the icy goodness. "So what exactly are you going to do in...in..."

"Pinto. I don't really know. Maybe I'll meet another guy."

"You don't need to meet a guy."

"I've been single long enough, Flossy."

"It's been, like, three days since your breakup with..."

"Caleb," Eunice provided. "What's your point?"

"Thank you. My point is that maybe you need to just stay single."

"Stay single? Have you gone mad, Flossy? My soul mate is out there and I need to find him! I can't afford to waste time!"

"He'll be waiting for you when the time is right."

"You can't just wait around waiting for your prince to come, Flossy. Haven't you learned anything from reality? Fairy tales simply do not exist. If they did, I would be cleaning or sitting on my behind drinking tea."

"You're sitting and drinking right now."

"This is a frappe, not tea."

"Touche."

"I can't wait until I find him, Flossy. I just know he'll be wonderful."

Like my mother, Eunice was a dreamer. Sometimes, though, I wish she'd learn to make realistic goals. Then she wouldn't be so disappointed in the end.

---

Alfie prodded at his dinner, spooning it and letting it drip back into the bowl like a waterfall. Alfie glanced across the table to see that his uncle had the same reaction. Alfie didn't want to complain, but this mush was bland. "Aunt Lorraine?" he said nervously.

"What?" she snapped, holding her wooden spoon up.

He gulped. "Uh, what is this stuff?"
"It's cream of wheat. It's healthy."

This was a drastic transition from a-calorie-away-from-a-heart-attack to liquidy lumps in a bowl.

"I don't always have time to slave over a stove for you two. If you want something good, make it yourself. This is the twenty-first century. Women are just as capable as men to work in the mines, you know."

But they wouldn't let you, Alfie thought to himself. He wondered what brought on the feminism speech.

"I've been speaking to Cassie lately and she says that I should be preparing healthier food. And poor Shelley has been overworked and that pig, Reynolds from down the street got the promotion she deserved! Isn't that horrific?"

Aunt Lorraine had been talking with her friends that are pregnant are were pregnant. She wanted tips on delivery, newborn, and the overall "mama-meter," whatever that was. Caroline was the one who suggested that she add more "oomph" to her cooking. Bless the lady.

"So horrific," Uncle Bobby muttered, spooning the cream of wheat into his mouth. "I haven't had this stuff since I was a kid. Do we have any brown sugar?"

"It's in the cabinet, to the left of the sugar," Aunt Lorraine replied.

"Could you get it for me?"

"Get it yourself, old man," she retorted sharply, spinning on her heels and walking back to the pot of cream of wheat to stir it.

Uncle Bobby grumbled, standing up and walking over to the pantry. He grabbed the entire bag and started scooping the compacted sugar into his bowl. He offered Alfie some, to which he gladly accepted. Half of the bag was gone by the time Alfie and Uncle Bobby were done eating. Alfie had a feeling Aunt Lorraine was going to have a fit when she found out how much sugar they had eaten.

Alfie placed his bowl in the sink, in hopes his aunt wouldn't scold him for not washing it. Luckily for Alfie, she didn't. She was too busy reading one of the romance novels she borrowed from a friend. He knew he would hear sniffling sounds in the dead of the night when a tragic event would occur to the characters. He went outside, anticipating Fran would be waiting on his porch swing for him.

As always, she was there, on time, with a tray of muffins and a pitcher of lemonade. She looked up when she heard the door clatter. "Hey, Alf."

"Fran," Alfie acknowledged.

"I brought muffins. They're chocolate chip."

Alfie eyed the pastries hungrily. He imagined them to be like heaven embodied in a compact, sweet breading. It would be after the meal, if you could even call it that, he had just consumed.

Fran held them out to Alfie. "Don't be shy about it, Alfie. I brought one for you. Go on and take one."

Alfie did and gobbled it up greedily. "You don't disappoint me."

Fran laughed. "I'm glad. I baked them this morning."

"You should become a baker. You're good enough at it."

"Why, thank you, Alfie. But you know I aspire to be an astronomer," she sighed, looking up at the sky. "You know, my daddy always told me that the sky should be my limit and to reach for the stars. He'd be proud of me."

"Your daddy didn't die, did he?"

Fran shook her head. "Nah, but he might as well have. I don't get to see him too much," she murmured sadly.

"Why not, Fran?"

"Do you know Miss Bessie from Pickled Pickin's?"

Alfie nodded.

"He's living with her now. I hear they're trying to have a family together. He's in love with her, apparently. I see him every now and then, but we don't really say anything. When he sees me in stores, he sort of avoids me. My momma afraid of confrontation."

"Why is that?"

"He didn't really say anything when he left. He packed up and in a flash, he was gone. I can't really concentrate on that now. I have my stars to think of."

"What's your favorite star, Fran?"

"Do you mean type of star or constellation?"

Alfie didn't know, and he really didn't care. It was just polite to make conversation. After all, she did bring him baked goods. "Type of star." He'd save constellation for another day.

She tilted her head to the side slightly. "I like yellow stars. Did you know our sun is a yellow star? That's the main reason why I like it."

"I didn't know that. I thought the sun was, well, the sun."

"Don't you pay attention in science class, Alfie?"

"Not particularly."

She sighed. "I figured. You're a lunch person, aren't you?"

Alfie smiled sheepishly. "I miss kindergarten. You got recess, naptime, lunch, and snack time."

"You're real silly, Alfie."

"That's a first."

"No one's ever called you silly before?"

"Nope."

"Not even your parents? Or grandparents?"

Alfie couldn't remember the last time he had even seen his grandparents, much less spoken to them. They weren't exactly the friendliest of company. His parents called every now and then, but communication with them was brief and sporadic.

"Especially not them."

Fran frowned. "I'm sorry. Has anyone called you 'Sprout' before?"

"Why would anyone call me Sprout?"

"I don't know. I heard it's a common nickname."

"Has anyone called you Sprout before?" Alfie asked.

Fran poured him a glass of lemonade. Alfie accepted it gratefully, swigging the cool drink. He could feel the liquid running down his throat. The lemonade left a refreshing aftertaste. Alfie assumed that this, too, was homemade. He couldn't taste the artificialness. It seemed authentic enough to him.

"Once. My grandad did, but then again, he called everybody who was younger than him Sprout. So it wasn't so special."

"Oh."

"So how come I haven't seen your parents around, Alf?"

"They're on an adventure."

Fran looked at me intently, offering me the last muffin. I took it. "What kind of adventure?" she mused. "Any why aren't you on it with them?"

"Didn't know want to go."

"Why not?"

Alfie sighed. "That's a story for another day, Fran."

"I should be heading home. I've got to wake up early. I'm attending a synchronized swimming course at the community pool."

He was suddenly reminded of the dancing hippos from Fantasia. Fran didn't seem like the type of girl who was into that sort of stuff. "Why are you taking it?" he asked.

"I thought it would be fun."

"Well, alrighty then. Night, Fran."

She collected her belongings. "Goodnight, Alfie."