OVERCOOKED

I awoke to the sound of pots and pans crashing against each other in the kitchen. I opened my eyes for a split second before squeezing them shut again. Thoughts from last night flooded my mind, preventing me from dozing off. Johnny and Dallas were dead. I closed my eyes tighter, hoping that would make the painful thoughts go away. Of course, that didn't work. I decided to get up.

I lazily swung my feet over the side of the bed and then sat there for a few moments in a cloudy, exhausted daze. My eyes were half open and I couldn't see straight. I ached something terrible from the rumble the night before. Every time I took a breath, my ribs hurt like none other. I could taste blood in my mouth, and ran my tongue across the inside of my bottom lip to find the beginning of a scab. Still in that fuzzy tiredness, I blinked a couple of times, and then got a shirt on and went into the kitchen.

To my surprise, Sodapop was there, frying eggs. I stood there, staring at him for a second, not really sure if I was really seeing what I was seeing. He must have not seen me standing there, because he didn't say anything. I took a couple of steps forward and asked, "What are you doing?" It sounded a little rough and careless, but I wasn't in the mood to be nice this morning.

Soda looked up from his eggs for a split second before concentrating on them again. "I just thought I should make Pony some breakfast after all what happened last night."

Soda was never able to cook hard-boiled eggs, which were Pony's favorite. Instead he was making them fried, which was his favorite kind. I watched my brother as he studied the eggs as if his life depended on it. I could tell by their dark outsides that they were overcooked. "You're burning them, Soda," I pointed out, spotting the morning paper on the table and noting that I would read it with breakfast. "They're overcooked."

"Oh, are they?" Soda suddenly snapped, and I looked back at him, confused. "Well, Darrel, if you're such an amazing cook," he mocked, waving the spatula around everywhere, "then maybe you should get up a few minutes earlier out of common courtesy like I did and cook them yourself, huh?"

I stared at him, my eyebrows raised, and just didn't say anything. Soda has never spoken to me like that. Not ever.

Soda frowned, looking back down at the eggs. "I'm sorry, Dar. I didn't mean it. I really don't feel good right now." His eyes were glassy.

"It's okay, Pepsi-Cola. We're all going to be okay." I reached a hand out to pat him on the shoulder in remorse, but I ended up ruffling up his hair and walking over to kiss him on the side of the head. As I did this, he shut off the flame.

I was just about to walk away, but Soda suddenly had his arms wrapped around my waist and his eyes buried into my t-shirt. I could feel him crying, and was so used to it, I didn't even remember bringing my hand up to his hair and stroking it. He didn't put any grease into it yet, but I had a feeling none of us would for a while. "I'm so scared, Darry. I'm scared for Pony. Johnny was his best friend, and Pony gonna be so upset for the longest time, and I can't stand to see him that way, Darry."

"I know, Soda. I know. But that's why you're here, right?" I pulled him away from me to look him in his weary, red eyes. "You always make it better. That's why you're his favorite brother."

Soda's smile turned into a frown at my last comment. "Aw, Darry, don't go on saying that, now. Pony loves you just as much as he loves me."

"Don't give me that bullshit. Go in there and wake him up, okay? I'm going to make some eggs and chocolate cake."

Soda nodded. "Make sure you don't burn them."