I: Gabe

Angel's Hair Pasta:

Sally Jackson's favourite picture was of her in a soft checked shirt with an arm around her toddler of a son, whose smile was gap-toothed and mischievous; it was set against the backdrop of their cabin in Montauk and was foggy at the edges. She kept in a gilded frame and displayed it proudly on the wall. Percy could see that his mother adored the photograph, so he did as well, taking care to polish it whenever he thought it too dusty.

Now Gabe was glaring at the picture as his stepson slumbered in the depth of the night, and Sally was cowering against the wall, a constellation of bruises—yellow starbursts and purple explosions—dotting her forearm.

"Gabe, please —"

"Please, nothing, Sally!" He roared. "Don't give me some bullshit lie about not being let off late! You were seeing him, weren't you, that waiter from Salt's!"

"It wasn't," his wife pleaded, "Percy will hear you, Gabe, please—"

That shut Gabe up. He stepped forward, chuckling and placed a hand gently on Sally elbow.

"Percy, Percy, Percy… It's all about that kid, isn't it? You've spoilt him rotten, that's what. Stupid little boy—"

He saw Sally straighten her back and stare at him with a newfound fury. For one fleeting moment, he was afraid.

"Don't you dare say anything like that about my son." Sally said softly.

Gabe slammed her elbow against the picture, sending the glass shattering towards the floor. Sally gave a cry of pain as blood began to run from the gashes in that razed her skin. She gathered the bruise arm in her good hand, trying not to cry as her son smiled at her from the faded photograph.

God, she could walk out of here right now, but she would not do it.

Gabe spat at the floor and walked towards the door.

"Going out for a drink," he said before he slammed it open, "Don't get any ideas. And for God's sake, clear that mess up."

It was only when she heard the door slam that Sally slumped against the wall and began to cry.

"Mom," she heard a small voice say and she hastily gulped back a sob as she looked at her pyjama clad nine year old son. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, dear," she managed, getting up. "Just had a little accident is all." She smiled at him. "You should go back to sleep, darling."

Percy frowned at her elbow and looked at the shattered glass. "You're bleeding."

"Nothing a little wash-up and bandage won't fix," she assured him. "It's fine, really." To show him that all was well, she crossed over to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a strip of gauze and tended to her wound.

Percy was looking at the broken memory. "I heard Gabe shouting."

Sally froze. "You must've been dreaming, honey. Gabe's out."

"The picture's broken."

She felt a lump in a throat as she tied up the bandage.

"Mama was clumsy." She paused to ruffle her son's hair. His eyes were surrounded by charcoal smudges. "C'mon, let's get you back to bed."

-v^v-

Percy had rushed home immediately once the last bell had rung and dismissal was called, only stopping by the shops to pick up a red-wrapped packet of angel's hair pasta—his mother's favourite—and a jar of Pesto's spaghetti sauce, red and flecked brown and olive from spices.

He hurried into the apartment, thinking it empty, and tossed his schoolbag onto the floor. He dashed into the kitchen, turning on the gas. He watched in amazement as the neon blue flame, which seemed awfully fragile and barely there, start to circle up in bits until the whole ring was illuminated.

He hoped he wouldn't mess this up.

He waited, hopping from one foot to another, for the water to boil, before dumping the pasta into the steaming water. It splayed around the pan like a swimmer's locks in the ocean. Once he managed to cut up a strand with a fork, without any sort of difficulty, he pumped the air in triumph and sputtered off the fire.

He dished the whole slop out onto a plate and drenched it in generous dollops of the sauce before setting in on the table, complete with a blue paper napkin. He forgot to wash up.

He waited impatiently for another fifteen minutes before the door opened—on the clock—and his mother, her face tired and her eyes drawn, stepped in.

"Percy?" She asked in surprise; her son was hardly early back.

"I made you something." He said gleefully.

Sally looked at the water cooling in the pan, at the bottle of sauce on the counter. She saw her son impatiently standing by a plate of pasta on the table and her heart ached.

"Oh, Percy…" She smiled, putting a trembling hand to her lips.

"You're not going to cry, mom?" He asked uncertainly, "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?"

She sat down next to him, depositing her handbag on an opposite chair, and smiled.

"No, Percy. This… this is wonderful."

Her son beamed.

"Go get another plate." She said, ruffling his hair, "let's eat."

The pasta was bland in some bits and the sauce was clumped, but Sally thought, with absolute sincerity, that she hardly had had a better meal.

Blue chipped cookies:

Gabe, Sally had long decided, had a definite lack of imagination. Food colouring did exist, so why was he so shocked whenever she put out another unnaturally blue meal?

By now, he would merely sniff in disgust, as if the food was disgusting him—which was rich—and stalk off with his tongue between his teeth. Percy would snigger, making sure that his stepfather couldn't see him. It was a small triumph.

She had started small, when Percy's report cart came in through the post. She and her son had sat with the manila envelope in her fingers; she had been anxious and he had been torn between eagerly wanting to get this over with and being completely fine with letting this go forever.

"I'm going to fail both my English paper, mom." He said mournfully—before he had actually taken the paper, it had been a subject that he thought he could pass; his teacher this year had been especially patient, which in turn had made Percy had love her and endeavour to work harder. She had seen her son struggle through the subject for nights on end, his inner arm stained silver from brushing against the pencilled words.

"I'm sure you'll do fine." She assured, getting out the letter opener.

Gabe, on his way to get another beer from the fridge, snorted.

"You've got as much hope at passing as food's got at being blue, kid." He snickered as he withdrew a cylinder, popping it open. Sally glared at him and Percy's hands curled into fists.

She put a calming arm on her son's shoulder and exchanged a look at him before ripping open the envelope, the cream paper sliding cleanly from the edge of the opener.

They scanned the printed letters together before their eyes tagged on the English results.

"You did it," Sally laughed in relief, "Percy, you did it!"

Percy grabbed the paper and held it to the light, as if to check its credibility. Once he deemed it acceptable, he waved it in the air triumphantly and let out a whoop.

Gabe stood sourly by the fridge and the next day, a pile of chocolate chips stood on the kitchen table. This time, the chips were a blinding, grinning blue.