For Butter or Worse by Saxon Bennett & Layce Gardner

Author:Saxon Bennett & Layce Gardner [Bennett, Saxon & Gardner, Layce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

***

Griffin nearly bowls me over when I enter the house. “You’re my superhero,” he says, jumping up and down.

My mother, Bella, tells him to stop. “We have to be quiet, Juniper isn’t feeling well. Your video upset her and now she’s resting.” She’s holding a platter of sliced cucumbers.

“What video? Oh, that video, the one that involves a long snake,” I say.

“Yeah, it was romping, stomping good. I was sad Penelope died though,” Griffin says. He looked grieved.

“I was sorry about that, too,” I say, not knowing if I really mean it or not. I did need my arm. I’ve grown rather attached to it.

My father comes out of the kitchen holding a piece of freshly baked garlic bread. He’s got a butter sheen on his chin from eating it. I am so sick of butter. (That’s something I never thought I’d say.)

“How’s the snake-killer?” Pop jokes.

I hear a groan from the couch. That’s usually where Juniper takes up residence when one of her various maladies hits. “Please, let’s not talk about the snake. I’m already traumatized,” she says theatrically. She puts her left arm over her forehead and swoons like Sarah Bernhardt.

She presses an ice pack on her right arm. “What’d you do to your arm?”

“It’s called SIS. Symbiotic injury syndrome,” she says, managing to sit up while still holding the ice pack over her bicep.

“What’s that?” I make the mistake of asking. Griffin has hold of my arm and is examining it.

Juniper explains, “It’s when a person close to you suffers a traumatic injury and you experience their pain. It’s not a common syndrome and mostly occurs in highly sensitive people. Such as myself.”

“I see. Well, I’m sorry I hurt your arm by hurting my arm,” I say. I look over at my father who rolls his eyes. He knows, like we all know, that Juniper is a wee bit crazy. We keep it on the down-low because her hypochondria is her reason for living. It’s a hobby, like making birdhouses or crocheting afghans. I feel sorry for Griffin, but he takes it in stride. It’s part of his world and he’s never known anything else. He seems happy and well-adjusted, so we must be doing something right as a family.

My mother sits on the edge of the couch and places the cucumber slices on Juniper’s arm. I snag one. My mother slaps my hand. “These are for your sister.”

“But I’m hungry,” I grouse.

Mom layers the cucumber slices up and down Juniper’s arm. “Have a heart. Your sister is in pain.”

My father hands me the bread basket he’s taken from the table. “Have a piece of bread,” he offers.

“Edward Bravo, you put that bread back on the table. It’s for dinner.”

We both snag a piece before he returns the basket to the table. It’s delicious.

My mother finishes applying the cucumber slices to Juniper’s arm. “You really shouldn’t have done that to your sister. It wasn’t very thoughtful of you. You know how sensitive she is about these things.”

“Believe me, I didn’t have any intentions of getting my arm eaten.

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