It was time to wake up Elliott. He’d been up late the night before worrying about the first day at his new school and getting him out of bed was not going to be easy. Trouble followed me to his room just as my dad came out into the hall, already showered and ready for the day. He’d recently recovered from two bouts of pneumonia. Now that he was feeling so much better, he filled his days doing all the things he’d missed while he was sick—watching his beloved Red Sox at the St. James Gate Irish Pub, bowling with his league, and seeing movies before noon, when they were half price. I was grateful that the sparkle was back in his green eyes, and that he’d gained enough weight to fill out his cheeks to their normal plump ruddiness.
“Elll-eee-ot,” I croaked in the voice of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial from my son’s doorway. He’d taken the small, back bedroom of my dad’s house, where the roof slanted down, creating a reading nook in the corner. Once we decided to stay, he’d plastered the walls with posters from Broadway musicals and a few from his own junior theater shows.
Silence. Perhaps he hadn’t heard me. Trouble jumped up on the bed as if to defend him from me. You know he hates that movie, her glare said.
I moved closer to the bed. “Elll-eee-ooot.” I dragged it out even more. “Time to wake up for school.”
Elliott pulled his Minecraft bedspread over his head.
“Maybe try a bucket of cold water,” my dad suggested from the hall.
“It’s too early,” Elliott groaned, not worried about the empty threat from his grandfather.
I began humming the E.T. theme song and my dad joined in.
Elliott ignored us.
We progressed to “Bah-Bah, bah-bah-bah-bah, Bah-BAH!”
Trouble gave a protest meow. At least hum it in key.
“WAY too early,” Elliott said, even louder.
I uncovered his head and smiled as he blinked owlishly at me. “It’s actually just about perfect o’clock.”
He gave a dramatic sigh and sat up, his dark hair falling over his eyes. “Why do they start school in freakin’ August out here?”
“Maybe you can ask your teacher that one,” I said.
“Right,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to home school me?”
I knew he was kidding. “I’m sure. Your breakfast is almost ready, and if you hurry with your shower, you’ll have time to eat before you meet your doom.”
My dad snorted. “Yeah, you don’t want to face that on an empty stomach.” We headed downstairs.
My cell phone rang from the kitchen, but stopped by the time we got there.
“Lani?” my dad predicted, grabbing a cup of coffee and taking a seat at the kitchen table.
Very few people would call me this early and my best friend, Lani Nakano, was one of them. I glanced at the phone screen and saw that it was indeed Lani who had called. “You got it.” I smiled at my dad before pushing the button to return the call. “You’re on speaker phone,” I said when she answered. “My dad’s here.” I turned the gas on under the griddle pan and started whisking the eggs and milk mixture into my dry pancake ingredients.
“Good morning, Hank,” Lani called out. “Good morning, Colbie. How’s Elliott?”
“A bit nervous,” I said. “But he’ll be fine. His buddy from summer camp is going to show him around.”
“Oh good,” she said. “Hey, can Mira carpool with you? I was planning to drop her off at the kitchen but I have an emergency in L.A.”
Mira Bellamy was one of Lani’s “kids,” as she called them. Lani was a CASA, a court-appointed special advocate for foster children in San Diego. She volunteered with several children, meeting regularly with them, their foster families, social workers, and representatives from the court system to ensure a safe environment. Mira had aged out of the foster program and worked for me part-time. She had three other jobs, and my commercial kitchen was the only one she couldn’t get to on her bike.
“Sure,” I said. “What’s the emergency?” I poured pancake mix on the griddle, roughly in the shape of a stick-figure person.
“Remember that bridal gown I made a few months ago?” she asked.
Lani was the creator and owner of Find Your Re-Purpose. She recycled used clothes to create works of art for people with a lot of money and an adventurous fashion sense.
I heard a car beep through the phone and imagined that she’d cut someone off. “For that actress?”
“Yep,” she said. “She used it for some kind of movie shoot and now it’s torn. She’s demanding that I be the one to fix it. They’re holding up production until I get there.”
“You mean no costume designer in the entire L.A. film industry is capable?” I asked and my dad shook his head at the stupidity.
“Hey, if she wants to pay my next month’s mortgage in exchange for one day’s work, it’s fine with me,” Lani said.
“I’ll pick up Mira after I drop off Elliott,” I said, calculating how delayed I’d be.
“No need,” she said. Then I heard her car beep outside. “I’m delivering her to your door.”
My dad laughed. He enjoyed Lani’s surprises as much as I did. “I’ll let her in,” he said, pushing back his chair.
I flipped the pancake onto a plate, and got out the chocolate syrup and whipped cream.
Elliott came down the steps slowly, pretend protest in every step. Trouble trotted down after him and started weaving around my ankles, demanding her own breakfast. For a cat food chef, you sure are slow to serve your own cat.
“One minute,” I told Trouble as I decorated Elliott’s pancake and added the already cooked chicken apple sausages on the side.
She huffed as if she understood me and jumped onto the windowsill to check out the neighborhood, her ears flicking impatiently.
“Good morning, sunshine.” I placed Elliott’s plate in front of him.
“What’s good about it?” He tilted his head, trying to figure out what I’d made. Then he recognized the chocolate-striped clothes, ball and chain, and prison bars and laughed. “A prisoner? Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.”
Mira stepped into the doorway of the kitchen as if unsure of her welcome. She was eighteen, with the rounded shoulders of someone who had spent too much time trying not to be noticed. She wore all black, except for a red bandana tied around her wrist. She had immediately copied Zoey, my main chef who refused to wear a hairnet, when she started working for me. Instead both wore bandanas on their heads in the kitchen.
Trouble immediately meowed and jumped down to greet her. Mira had become one of the cat’s favorite people the moment they met. Lani thought it was because they’d both been abandoned young, that they recognized something in each other. My dad said it was because Mira spoiled Trouble rotten.
Mira bent over to pick her up and cradle her like a baby, and Trouble gave me a look that meant, Finally. Someone who does what I want when I want it.
“Good morning, Mira,” I said. “Would you like some pancakes?”
“No thank you,” she said. “I ate at home.”
In case she was just being polite, I added more mix to the bowl.
My dad gestured to the table. “At least sit for a bit before you get going.” He grabbed a mug. “Coffee?”
She shrugged, put Trouble on the floor and sat, but he was already pouring one for her. He set it in front of her and refilled his own mug. She reached for the sugar