Paper Airplane

9

 Chapter Nine

 

 

                I woke to multiple pains that morning.

                First, I had the worst headache I’ve had in years.  It felt like someone whacked me with a baseball bat in my sleep.  And then not only was the gash on my knee stinging, the bruises from tripping over those stairs at that party and landing on the cement ground have decided to remind me that they were still there.  Especially the one that got cut.  I also somehow managed to nearly chew through my cheek at some point throughout the night.

                Sighing, I sat up slowly, pressing a hand over my forehead.  My skin felt hot, but my hands might just be that cold.  I kicked out of my blankets and slid out of bed.  Maybe Mom will know what to do for all my injuries.  God, maybe they should just stick me in a hospital somewhere.  At least I’d be better off for the rest of the summer there.

                As soon as I opened my door, I smelt something amazing.  Dad was making blueberry pancakes, my favorite.  I could see him slaving over the stove, and this actually made me smile.  He hasn’t cooked them in ages.

                Mom was on the couch, her nose buried in a book.  Her glasses were perched halfway down her nose, and her hair was in some kind of messy bun.  For a second, she reminded me of…  Well, me.  Except that I don’t wear glasses.  It was so strange that I returned my focus to Dad.

                “Wow,” I said, climbing onto a stool and propping elbow on the island, resting my chin in my hand.  “What crawled into your coffee this morning?”

                He rolled his eyes.  “Someone’s ungrateful.”

                I smirked.  “Joking, Dad.  Hey, do you know where Brady keeps his aspirin?  I have a killer headache.”

                “It’s in the cupboard to the right of the sink,” Mom answered over her shoulder.  “Middle shelf.”

                “Thanks,” I mumbled, retrieving the medication and a glass of water, which tasted terrible.  “Where is Brady?”

                “Sleeping,” Dad said.  “He was out late.”

                I vaguely remembered my frantic brother in the parking lot of a gas station yesterday, realizing that it was going to be a long night for him and his team.  Why, I have no idea.  But perhaps it really did end up being a long night. 

                “When did he get home?”

                “No idea,” Mom sighed.  “We were already in bed.”

                “Huh.”

                Well, that can only mean one thing: it’ll be an easy day for me.  If Brady’s too tired to do anything, then I won’t have to do anything either.  And either way, I’m injured.  I now have a legitimate excuse to stay here for the next two weeks at least if I can figure out a way to milk this.  As Dad dropped two pancakes on a plate and handed it to me, I began to make a list in my head of all things I could do to get out of going out with my brother.

                The pancakes tasted as great as I remembered them tasting, and when I was finished, I found that I wanted more.  But I resisted the urge and instead decided to take a shower.  An unrushed, peaceful, long shower and I’m going to shave my legs and underarms and then sit under the scalding water even longer afterwards, because I have nowhere to be today.