Jema

7. Ferdinand the Fish/You Can't Trust Eleven Year Olds

6:29 a.m.

I flinch awake rapidly, Dennis having winced in his sleep.

His arm is around my shoulders as if we're seven and five years old again; only back then, I was bigger than him. Once I stir, Dennis does too, officially waking up to a faceful of Anna's long, dirty blonde hair. Somehow, we managed to sandwich Anna between us in a tangle of legs and sleep that way.

Before Dennis can ask what time it is, Mom opens the door dressed and everything. Quickly, I realize that she's in last night's clothes; must've arrived home late due to Rowe's accident yesterday. Her knocking is probably what woke Dennis up.

"New Mexico today!" she whispers excitedly. "We're leaving right after lunch today at one. Five and a half hour drive, kiddos. Get packing!"

Rowe must be just fine.

Dennis and I shake Anna awake with no explanation (which causes her to pitch a fist my way; I dodge it matrix-style) prior to following the syrupy smell to the kitchen like little puppies. Before we reach the table, Dennis cups my shoulder. "You alright?"

"Mhmm," I reply, fisting at my blurry eyes. Glasses is on my 'things I probably need but it's not a problem yet so I won't mention it' list.

"You were crying in your sleep, though," he explains. "I mean, it could be nothin'. Don't let me bother you." He smiles tightly, sympathetically. In comeback, I shove him into the wall, purely in lightheartedness.

"Crying cause of your face, maybe." Dennis shakes his head, shoving me back. I'm surprised the entire house doesn't cave in on itself by that little disturbance.

The outside is remarkably admirable: a little river-esque brick walkway, faded reds and greys as if the bricks were shaded with vintage chalk, and grass (miracle grass is more like it) that is literally always green in the summer time without tending to it. Our first week in the house, Rob actually painted the outside a faint, Easter-turquoise, and the roof is a stormy-grey. I used to admire the color so often (I wished my hair were that color for the longest time) that I could practically smell the ramifications of rainfall. Really weird, really gay; I know.

Ha, the Eckart-Slate house puts up a real façade.

We're not the Haggarty's. I mean, Rob doesn't beat the ever living shit out of us for no good reason, but the cliché 'beautiful on the outside, ugly on the inside' really gets its roundabouts here. Peeling paints, one broken toilet and the other on the verge-sometimes the shower only runs cold water. The handle is broken off the living room window, so during the summer, we have no way of letting air inside the house unless we open the door.

So, we don't have rats or mice or cockroaches here, but it's not the best.

"You sure you're alright?" Dennis says again, in a more serious way. "I mean, you used to have really bad dreams back in New Mexico."

"Bad dream?" Mom catches the bits of our conversation, a concerned guise threatening the thick ends of her brows, but not quite concerned enough to keep egging the situation. I shrug, and just like that, she lets it go. Although I don't remember whatever dream I was having, I've got a pretty good idea what it was. Good thing I can't recall it.

The shower water runs uninterrupted, so Corey obviously jumped at his chance to seize the hot water all for his lonesome. Fine with me- we get more French toast.

Anna finally emerges from the hallway, hair wild and the imprint of her own fingers highlighting her forehead an angry red. "Mom?"

"Anna?"