SOME people were addicted to meth, I was addicted to baking. And so instead of huffing paint next to a rusty dumpster in a deserted alleyway, I found my simple pleasures in the more domestic of arts.
My fix came every time I stirred the thick batter with a wooden spoon, watching the concoction grow smoother and creamier with every whip I made. Or when I snuck a quick finger scoop, revelling in the delicious cookie dough taste that overwhelmed my taste buds. Or the best, when I stuck the dough in the oven and watched it rise to golden toasty goodness, the sweet aroma wafting and enveloping me whole.
Which is why I tried to remind my mom that seriously, I could have been addicted to meth instead of baking, she should consider herself so lucky.
The woman I called mom shot me an unimpressed look, running her index finger along the flour dusted counter. "Stella, I'm expecting this kitchen to look exactly like when you came in, and before you leave, okay?"
I wiped the back of my hand against my forehead, no doubt only further spreading the white powder that had covered everything in a five foot radius, and nodded mechanically. "Yes mom," I sighed. "I promise I'll do it."
While the actual baking might have been on addiction level obsession, the cleaning up part was definitely not. That part I liked to avoid as much as possible, or really until my mom scolded me and I had to I trudge back into the warzone I'd abandoned.
My mom smiled knowingly at me and crossed the floor to plant a kiss on the top of my head. "Good, I'll be home later tonight, Chris said he'll be home anyway, and leave me one or two cookies."
I smiled back at her, nodding my head. "Of course. Have fun."
And with that she disappeared out of the room, leaving me to deal with the mess that was left. I knew that baking was worth it, because I loved it, and I especially loved eating it, but as I examined the dirty bowls and thoroughly covered counter tops, I reminded myself that I really did need to succeed and get a maid one day.
The biggest hurdle was deciding where to start. If magical powers were to ever exist, now was the time for them to show up.
Abra Kadabra. Nope, still there.
"Smells good, what're you making?"
At the sound of my brother's voice, I purposely turned my back and grabbed a stray dish cloth, very pointedly wiping down the surface and not answering. Suddenly, cleaning become my new favourite hobby. Along with ignoring disloyal traitors.
As silence saturated the air, I heard a sigh sound behind me.
"Oh come on Stella, it's been seriously forever, can't you just forgive me already?" There were hints of desperation in his voice.
Despite that, I still said nothing, keeping my lips clamped shut and my eyes averted onto my work. I had to press my lips together to repress the smirk, and reminded myself that he was the actual worst. I still hadn't forgiven him for getting me into this entire mess in the first place- to betray his own blood for a mere thirty dollars.
I would have at least asked for fifty. He wasn't even good at betrayal.
"Please, I'll do anything," he pleaded, and when I sharply turned on my heel, I saw that his eyes were focused on the crème brûlée cake balls I'd baked earlier. When he noticed my movement, his gaze immediately snapped to me with a sheepish grin.
I knew it.
With my hip jutted to the side and my arms crossed over my chest, I sized him up with a calculating gaze. "Anything?" I echoed.
YOU ARE READING
Fraternizing with the EnemyChickLit
(alternatively called: slow burn, second-hand embarrassment, and shenanigans) A girl made up of short fuses, clumsy feet and copious amounts of sarcasm has to team up with her irritatingly obnoxious neighbour in the name of love (also known as ragin...