I grabbed my mother’s journal from the counter, where I’d left it earlier that morning. In it she had written her most beloved recipes, along with her thoughts and anything she found inspiring. There was a special section in the back devoted to cookie recipes. It was the only possession of hers I owned, and I treasured it more than anything else.
A few months earlier I’d started adding my own notes and sketches to the blank pages in the back. I’d always been afraid of ruining the book, as if my additions would somehow dilute what was already there. But I had aspirations and ideas, too, and I didn’t think there was any other place I’d rather record them.
I ran my fingers over the old food stains on the pages, reading and rereading her tiny cursive handwriting.
I decided on Cas’s favorite cookie, pumpkin chocolate chip, since he had aced the previous day’s mental evaluation—and because they were my favorite, too.
After gathering the ingredients, I got to work. I pretty much knew the recipe by heart, but I still followed Mom’s instructions, and the notes she’d made in the margins.
Do not use imitation vanilla.
Stock up on pumpkin puree close to holidays—
stores tend not to stock it in spring and summer.
It can’t hurt to add extra chocolate—ever.
Dad said Mom ate chocolate like some people eat bread.
She died when I was one, so I didn’t really know her. Dad didn’t talk about her a lot, either, but every now and then a story would shake free from his memory and I would listen intently, not making a sound, worried that any noise on my part would break the spell.
I poured the bag of chocolate chips into the mixing bowl, the little bits plopping into the layer of rolled oats. Outside, the bleak sky hid the sun, and the wind had picked up since I’d crawled out of bed. Winter was on its way. If this wasn’t a day for cookies, I didn’t know what was.
Once the dough was mixed, I filled two cookie sheets and slid them into the oven, setting the timer so they’d finish somewhere between baked and doughy. Cas liked them that way.
With the timer ticking in the background, I sat at the table, my science book open in front of me. I had reached the end of the chapter on fault lines and was supposed to write an essay about it. I’d been homeschooled my whole life, and my dad was my teacher. Recently, though, he’d left me on my own. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed if I’d skipped the assignment, but I couldn’t stand the thought of giving up so easily.
By the time the cookies were done, I’d made zero progress and my back was stiff. I’d pulled a muscle during Saturday night’s combat lesson—Dad’s idea of an extracurricular activity—and I was still paying for it.
Leaving the cookies to cool, I headed upstairs to my room. At my dresser, I pushed aside a pile of old sketches and travel magazines, spying my bottle of ibuprofen tucked behind them.
After swallowing two pills down with a gulp of water, I tossed my hair up in a messy ponytail, leaving a few wispy blond strands hanging in my face. I peered at myself in the mirror and curled my upper lip. Making things beautiful on paper with a pencil in my hand was easy for me. Making things beautiful in real life wasn’t.
It was just past noon when I loaded the cooled cookies onto a plate. On my way down to the lab, I grabbed the new tube of tennis balls I’d bought for Cas. I swore that boy had ADD, though his unwavering attention when food was present indicated he had some focus skills.
When I entered, my gaze went to Sam’s room first. He sat at his desk, the full bow of his mouth pressed tightly in a line of concentration. He didn’t even bother to look up from the book in front of him. Sometimes, the Sam I spent time with at night was completely different from the careful and serious Sam I saw when other people were present. Did I act differently depending on who was around? I doubted Sam would even care if I did.
Dad was at his computer, typing away. He gave a half wave without taking his eyes off the screen. Cas, his blond hair sticking up in messy tufts, moved to the front of his room when I approached. He pressed his face against the glass and puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish. When he pulled back and smirked, his cheeks dimpled in that innocent-but-mischievous way that only five-year-olds can pull off. Well, five-year-olds and Cas.
Despite their altered rate of aging, caused by the treatments, Cas looked the youngest. With his dimples and round cheeks, he had a classic baby face. And he knew exactly how to use it to his advantage.
“Pumpkin?” He nodded at the cookies.
“Of course.”
“Anna Banana, I love you.”
I laughed and unlocked the hatch—a small opening in the brick wall between his room and Trev’s—and slid in four cookies, along with the tennis balls. I hit the button so he could open the hatch on his side.