Chasing Days

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

☾

Monday

Teddy and I sit in the car for a solid ten-minutes, like usual. Only this time it's because he doesn't want to venture into the canyon of his house where his parents' no echoes from the walls. My parents pull into our driveway, honking the horn of their frosted tulip new wave Volkswagen Beatle. My dad picked the shade of pink because he's progressive like that. I get out and give Teddy a wimpy wave goodbye.

After I drop off my bag, I walk over to Mrs. McGregor's house, our elderly neighbor. When I was nine, I wanted to start a dog-walking service in a solid plea to show my parents how much I wanted a dog and that I was responsible, would help pay for it, and take care of it.

It was a long conversation, but came down to my dad having allergies.

Mrs. McGregor was and is my only customer. Her kids had bought her a puppy to keep her company after her husband passed away. Daisy, the Maltese, and I became best friends. I stopped charging Mrs. McGregor a dollar per walk about five years ago when I realized after I took Daisy out, she'd feed me cake or hot chocolate and we'd chat for half an hour. She's the nicest ninety-year-old I've ever met and the closest I'll ever get to having a grandmother and a dog of my own. Even though Daisy's hypoallergenic, when my dad is in her proximity his mouth hangs open slightly like he has a stuck sneeze.

An hour later, I pace in front of the computer, procrastinate my homework, and try to talk myself out of not calling Grady. I write and then delete texts to Teddy. He'd tell me that I'm a hot mess.

"Honey, do you want a glass of kombucha?" my mom calls from the kitchen.

"No," I say, then, "Ew," not loud enough for her to hear.

Two-seconds later, she appears with a glass anyway. She sits down at the dining room table and eyes the computer, which hums itself into hibernation mode. Stars stream hypnotically across the screen. "Tired? Not feeling inspired? Tell me what's on your mind," she says.

I want to feel heckled and annoyed, but instead I slouch into the seat across from her. She slides the glass toward me.

I take a sip and choke it down. "Seriously, this is gross."

"But it's a fresh batch."

"It's like drinking a jellyfish smoothie."

"Kombucha contains the perfect synthesis of fermented bacteria and yeast. It's good for your intestinal health. It'll help you purge toxins. The SCOBY is an active—"

I make a gagging noise.

She takes the glass and has a sip. "Okay, you're right. It's gross."

I take a deep breath and turn in the direction of the yellow house next door as Mr. Westing's tan Lexus pulls in. He leaves it in the driveway as if to compare the polish of his vehicle to the filth of his son's.

"Theo's parents are so bland," I say idly.

Mr. Westing strides up the walk to the etched-glass door. I imagine him going inside and congratulating his son instead of meeting him with his typical silence or scorn. "Café latte walls, white carpet, gold metal frame glasses, jobs that involve desks and—" I make my kombucha face. I'd like to throw the glass of slime at Teddy's dad.

"Who's Theo?" she asks.

"Good question."

Just then, my dad crashes through the kitchen door, plops down at the table with us, and wipes sweat from his brow before he downs the kombucha. "Refreshing."