Into the Velvet

Fifteen Days Until

It was the start of our Thanksgiving break, and I had nothing to be grateful for. Henry felt as distant from me as the furthest star.

"Mom!" Olly called from the kitchen.

Mom was working in the study. "What, honey?"

"I followed the recipe. How long do I bake the pie for?"

I heard her weary sigh. "If you followed the recipe, you'd know the answer."

Then came the blaring of our smoke alarm, startling me out of the newest edition of the New Philosopher. Something wasn't right. I took one whiff of smoke – either I was having a stroke, or I was inhaling the aroma of eau de burnt pastry.

And that was how Olly burned the Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.

After opening every window, frantically fanning at the smoke with tea towels and newspapers, we managed to salvage what little of Thanksgiving Olly hadn't ruined. The turkey was safe — and thank goodness for that. The green beans and stuffing had also made it out alive. But there had been casualties.

"I left you alone in the kitchen for twenty minutes!" Mom cried, fussing over the dinner table. Nothing could be done now. Olly's mangled pie had to be operated on — the remnants of the burnt concoction was set on the table, now a pureed mess with a smoky scent.

Olly was gutted. He ran his hands over his face. "I was a foolish mortal, with but a single dream," he moaned. "To bring the world's best dessert into this world. Why must Fate be such a cruel temptress?"

"Did Fate set the oven at five hundred degrees Fahrenheit?" I asked with sarcasm.

"I wanted it to cook faster!"

Dad grunted and handed me a plate of potatoes. "At least we now know the smoke alarm works."

I accepted the dish plate with a smile, nudging his shoulder. "What are you thankful for this year, Dad?"

"That the smoke alarm works."

Mom narrowed her eyes at Olly with light-hearted exasperation. "Well, I'm thankful for a daughter who wouldn't have burned the kitchen down had I left her with the cooking instead."

Olly pretended to be hurt. "Mom, you're acting as if I wanted to ruin my own night. Like I'm some pie-murdering sicko."

"Oh, alright, it was an accident," she conceded. Mom watched, with a little more than disgust, as Olly loaded up on the burnt mush and devoured it just the same. "Tell me one thing you're thankful for, Olly. Before you start throwing up."

He grinned with a mouthful of orange, making us all groan and cringe.

"You're feral," I muttered.

"This year," he spoke after swallowing, "I'm thankful for the human cochlea." Then, much to my surprise, he directed his gaze towards me. "The cochlea is a wonderful thing. It lets me translate vibrational frequencies into electrical messages that my brain can interpret as sound."

"What's your point?" I demanded, feeling defensive but not knowing why.

He casually shrugged. "I don't know. Unambiguous gratitude? It's nice being able to hear the comings and goings of everyone who lives here."

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled up. What did he mean by that?

Mom expressed her vexation with a sigh. "That's not—okay, Olly, I suppose that's the best I'll ever get out of you. It's your turn, viejita. What will it be this year?"