Phantom Limbs by Paula Garner

Author:Paula Garner [Garner, Paula]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7636-9188-2
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2016-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

IT STARTED THE WAY SO MANY GOOD THINGS do: with bacon. Our parents had left. Meg stood at the stove, the pan in front of her sizzling and popping, and I sat at the table with my feet up on another chair, sipping not just any lemonade, but homemade lemonade with fresh mint and ginger — Meg’s own invention and a stroke of refreshment genius. Meg had gone home for a few hours after the pool so I’d had time for a shower and a nap. I felt pretty darn good. Rested. And a similarly uncharacteristic sense of freedom, since I hadn’t seen or heard from Dara since she took off after our morning practice.

“Could you crack those eggs into a bowl?” Meg asked, turning the bacon over.

“Sure.” I jumped up to help. I was a little overzealous in my cracking; I brought an egg down so hard on the edge of the bowl that it broke clear through and the egg splattered onto the counter.

“You Ironmen.” Meg smiled, shaking her head. She was in a good mood.

I wiped up the egg with paper towels and tried again. When I had three eggs in the bowl, Meg told me to whisk in the Parmesan cheese.

I squinted at her. “Did you ever read Tom Sawyer?”

“No, why?” Her poor nose was peeling from her sunburn, illuminated by the lightbulb in the stove hood.

I started mixing the cheese with the eggs. “He’s supposed to whitewash a fence, but he hoodwinks the other kids in the neighborhood into doing the work. You’d make him proud.”

“You could grind in some pepper now.”

“See?”

She laughed.

“I mean, come on,” I said, picking up the pepper mill. “You’re standing there in front of the stove, just looking pretty, and I’m doing all the heavy lifting.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Cue the violins.”

“How much pepper?”

“Tons.”

When she finally said I could stop grinding pepper, I stood behind her, watching over her shoulder as she dropped spaghetti into a boiling pot of water. She wore a red-and-white polka-dot shirt and jean shorts, and she looked unreasonably cute. Also, I could smell her hair.

“Where’d you learn how to make this?” I asked.

“Jeff’s grandmother. She’s from Italy.”

Why’d I have to open my mouth? I just killed my own buzz.

“She’s an incredible cook.” Meg set the stove timer to nine minutes. “Jeff’s got it made. All the women in his family are great cooks.”

The idea of Meg immersed in his world gave me an ache.

But minutes later, when we stirred the creamy, cheesy egg and the crispy bacon into the steamy pasta — and threw in handfuls of extra cheese — I was distracted from my misery.

“This is unreal,” I told her, twirling up a giant forkful. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“I know, right?” She kept grating more cheese into her bowl until I finally had to laugh.

“How ’bout some pasta with your cheese?” I asked.

She stuck her tongue out at me.

We ate it all — every delicious bite. Then Meg set the pot between us and we fished out the last strands of spaghetti with our fingers.

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