Zing smiled back. “What’s a social security number?”
***
“We’re having pizza tonight,” Miracle said as she flipped the disc-shaped piece of dough in the air. The kitchen smelled yeasty like the bakery. “I know we had spaghetti last night, so I apologize for having Italian two nights in a row.”
“Why?” Zing asked. “Italians eat it every night.”
Miracle laughed. “That’s true. I like the way you think.” She tossed the pizza dough again. It spun in the air several times before Miracle caught it. Zing thought making pizza looked like fun.
“Sometimes you just have to say ‘What the hell.’ That’s my motto,” Miracle said.
“I don’t think that’s a good thing to say. It’ll make Annabelle nervous and put her on high alert.”
“What can happen? I’m only making pizza.”
Zing wished she wouldn’t say that. Humans’ faith in their own abilities often exceeded their skills—and that’s when accidents happened.
“Do you want to try throwing the dough?” Miracle asked. She stopped twirling and handed the floppy disk-shaped dough to Zing.
Zing took the dough in her hands. It felt tacky and pliable. “What do I do?”
“You throw it,” Miracle said. “Spin and throw.”
Zing pirouetted and threw. The dough hit Miracle in the face.
Miracle pulled the dough off her face. “I guess I should’ve been more specific. Let me roll it out again. I’ll show you exactly what to do.”
“Okay,” Zing said. She leaned over Miracle’s shoulder and watched as she turned the blob of dough back into a flattened circle.
“So, you do it like this,” Miracle said, pulling her fingers apart and twirling the dough and throwing it up in the air. She caught the dough and handed it over to Zing, saying, “Now, you try.”
Zing imitated her and soon the dough was spinning in her hands.
“Good, now throw it up in the air, as high as you can, and twirl it again when it comes down,” Miracle instructed.
Zing twirled and threw the dough high as she could, but . . . It didn’t come down. It was stuck to the ceiling.
Both women stood still, heads tilted back, staring at the disc of dough plastered to the ceiling.
“When I said throw it as high as you can, I didn’t mean literally as high as you can,” Miracle said.
“Oh,” Zing said. “I’ve noticed that humans don’t say what they mean. And sometimes they mean what they don’t say. Don’t they ever say what they mean or mean what they say?”
“A very brilliant writer and philosopher once wrote about that very subject. His name was Dr. Seuss.”
There was a long silence as they stared at the dough.
“It’s very sticky, isn’t it?” Zing said.
“Not enough flour,” Miracle said.
“I’ll get it off the ceiling,” Zing said. She pulled out a kitchen chair, placed it under the dough and climbed on top. She reached as high as she could but still fell a good three feet short. She jumped off the stool. “The ceiling’s too high and I’m too short.”
“Why don’t you just fly up there and get it?” Miracle asked.
“I’m not that kind of an angel,” Zing said.
“Oh, I’ll get it.” Miracle pulled out a stool that she’d been using as a plant stand and propped that on top of the chair. “You just hold the stool steady while I climb on top of it.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Zing said.
“I’ll be fine,” Miracle said. She stared up at the ceiling. “But we’re going to need something to scrape it off.” She squeezed one eye shut.
“Is there something wrong with your eye?”
“No. I’m thinking. I close one eye because it helps me think. Oh, I know,” she said, and raced out of the kitchen.
Evidently, one-eyed thinking worked. Zing would have to try it next time she needed to think. Miracle returned with a snow shovel. “I’ll scrape it off with this. Easy-peasy,” Miracle said.
Zing considered the easy-peasy of the situation as Miracle climbed up the rung of the stool armed with a snow shovel. She stood on top of the stool which stood on top of the kitchen chair.
“Here we go,” Miracle said, positioning the snow shovel so it could scrape the sticky dough. She got the dough off with one quick scoop—a good thing in theory. The bad thing was that Miracle scooped so hard that it thrust her off the stool, which toppled off the chair.
Miracle hit the floor the same time as the stool. And then it seemed as if everything moved in slow-mo. The shovel arced high in the air, then spun, and began its downward descent. The tip of the shovel was aimed right for Miracle’s exposed neck.