This Is How You Lose Yourself

no.15. pound cake

"I need you to go to market and get some butter, sugar, and... I can't think of it right now." My mother says through the staticky line of the phone in the James's living room.

"What are you cooking this time?" I ask, bored. I mentally make a list of the items my mother has requested. I wonder if I'll have to use my own money that I carry around for this, in case of emergencies.

"Your father likes pound cake, I'm making one of those." She whispers into the line, as if she were hiding somewhere.

"Maybe you need flour," I supply.

"Yes! I need flour." She says, then softly, "Be careful, Ettie, it's getting late."

"Yes, mom," I reassure. Then hang up with a goodbye.

I lug my backpack onto my shoulders. "I've got to go," I tell Ana who was standing steps away from me during the conversation, wringing a dish towel between her hands nervously.

A timer dings in the distance. "Must you go now. My lasagna just finished baking." Ana says with a strange formality, like I'm in 19th century Britain being "entertained." Or whatever the Brits did/do.

"That's tempting," I say honestly but mostly to appease her. "But my mom is making me run some errands for her. I want to get home before the sun sets." But but but, there's a but for everything, I think as the word slips past my lips - far too late to catch it.

"Yes, of course." She nods then bobs up and down on the balls of her feet, "I'll cut you a slice to go then." She turns around and disappears into the kitchen.

"That won't be – "necessary. I say for naught. I slump into the conveniently placed couch behind me, book-bag and all, not wanting to go upstairs again to talk so Sadie. Because no I hadn't left.

Ana comes back bustling ten minutes later and shoves warm plastic Tupperware into my hands. "Say hello to your mom for me. Have a nice night, Ettie." She tells me warmly, pats my arm, and leaves. I guess I'll see myself out. I shove the lasagna into my backpack and zip it up hastily.

Stepping out of the door, I am it hit in the face by fall. The sun is slowly setting, and the temperature is dropping with it. The wind pulls at the ends of my flowy shirt, putting me in danger of being indecent. I hug myself tightly around my midsection and set off opposite of the fierce winds. Stupid West coast.

I make my way to the eerie corner store that's like 10 million blocks from my house and never ceases to give me the creeps. It's always filled with sketchy people looking sketchy, it even reeks of cigarettes. It looks like the place where you would find the proceedings of illegal drug dealings and, perhaps, dog fights in the secluded alleyways that border it. It sits in the corner where it belongs, decrepit and foreboding.

I have to push my way past the huddle of bodies crowded behind the door rapidly penning in lotto numbers, the ring of the door chime panging in my ears. Slightly speed walking, I knock a bag of flour into my arms, followed by a bag of sugar, and cradle them to my chest before making my way to the refrigerated aisle (if you would even call it an aisle) and finally grabbing some butter.

Standing behind the counter is a shifty looking man, rifling through stacks of dollar bills while picking at his yellow nails. A fake blonde woman stands next to him disgustingly pulling on a piece of chewing gum from her mouth, she blatantly stares at the man, enthralled. By him or the money? I don't know. Either way, she looks ridiculous with her neon pink tracksuit that's two sizes too small and flashy gold hoop earrings that look like you can fit a fist through them.

How flamboyant.

My arms give out just as I get to the counter. It takes a couple of clearings of my throat before the man notices that he actually has a customer. Yet, he sneers at me as he checks out my stuff. "10 dollars," He says gruffly, pushing the stuff into a crumbled-up paper bag. What a dick-head.