"We have new neighbors," Maia says.
"I don't care," I respond, pouring milk into my bowl. I open the cabinet next to the fridge and reach into it, only for my hand to grasp empty space between the second and fourth canisters on the top shelf.
If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, then cereal is sacred; thus, the vandalism of another's designated cereal jar is a heinous act of domestic war.
I whip around, scanning the kitchen table for potential offenders. Dad's hunched so far over his laptop that only his messy brown hair is visible while his pancakes sit untouched; Riza's pouring a generous helping of maple syrup onto her own plate; and Maia's eating cereal from a cup like a heathen. A medium-sized cylindrical canister with a red plastic top sits empty on the table in front of her.
"Maia, what the hell?" I demand.
She has the audacity to gorge on another spoonful before snapping "What?" with her mouth full of cereal.
I accusingly point my own spoon at her. "That's my cereal."
Maia rolls her eyes and scoffs. "It was in the pantry. That doesn't make it yours."
I'm only vaguely aware of my voice mounting when I say, "Yes, it does, because I was the one who put it in the cart when we went to the grocery! And it's in my container!"
The kitchen door slams open, and we all jump at the sound. Balancing my bowl of milk precariously from the counter to the kitchen table, I scurry to my seat between Riza and the cereal thief.
Mom — our unofficial, uncontested, and outright unquestioned chief and executive commander — walks into the kitchen and glares at Maia, then at me. Her eyes stop on my bowl.
"Matthias," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose, "Why are you drinking milk from a bowl?"
"Maia ate all my Frosty Flakes!" I gesture at the empty canister.
"They're called Frosted Flakes, dumbass," she sneers.
"Stop," Mom says, her voice tightening. Maia and I visibly stiffen at the sound of it.
"If you want more cereal, go to the store. Both of you. We need groceries, anyway. I'll give you a list."
Maia opens her mouth to protest, but Mom is already stepping out of the kitchen, closing the door quietly behind her. It never ceases to amaze me, the amount of power my mother holds over us. Maia and I sit in silence, sulking, resigned to our fates.
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Mindlessly, I stare at the rows of packaged meat neatly lined at the bottom of the open fridge. I put myself in Nietszche's place and imagine them as the void. It doesn't take long for the lamb chops to stare back at me.
The clattering sound of Maia tossing one into our cart shakes me from my thoughts. I blink away the rows of lean-cut red squares, and turn to focus on the back of Maia's teal-dyed head as she walks further from me. I jog to catch up to her.
"So what's with the neighbor thing?" I ask.
"I thought you said you didn't care," she says, not looking back. She sounds like a petulant child. I resist the urge to mimic her and roll my eyes instead.
"Yeah, before I found out it had to do with Garrett. Punk owed me money."
She still doesn't say anything. I sigh dramatically, just to be a nuisance, and resort to staring down the produce once more. We're now in the dairy section. I decide that the gallon of soymilk Maia picks out deserves extra scrutiny.
YOU ARE READING
My Neighbor the Vampire <Hiatus>
Humor[lgbt+] Sixteen year old Matthias sees himself as a pretty normal guy: Smart but not brilliant, cool but not popular, and stuck in a school full of what seems to be the biggest assholes in the entire planet. (Including himself, of course. He's a wor...
