Dinner came too quickly for Michelle's liking. She wanted to spend the whole day sprawled on her bed in her warmest clothes. She was just about to drift off when she heard her mother knock on her door.
"Dear, it's time to get ready for dinner."
Michelle groaned instead of replying.
"Michelle, did you hear me?"
"Yeah, Mom. Just give me a minute."
She forced herself to sit up on her bed. She was in a sweater over yoga pants. Her mouth was dry from lying on her bed for so long, and her tongue was still a bit scorched from the hot chocolate they had at the cafe they had stopped at for lunch.
Soon they were all in the car, Michelle dressed in the sleek red dress she'd donned in the morning. Tommy was now wide awake, while Michelle was still half asleep. Tommy was trying his hardest to get her attention, waving his little hand in her face and talking. She ignored him, drifting off to sleep in the car.
She found herself drowsily awakening as they reached the restaurant. She blinked sleepily as her family got out of the car, shivering in the frigid air despite the jacket and scarf she was wearing.
She felt better as they entered the warm, cosy, dimly lit restaurant. There was some Christmas song playing overhead. The place was Christmas decorated, with shiny tinsel hanging from the walls and holly scattered on the tables.
They took a seat at a table where Tommy immediately reached for the red and green candles, causing his mother to grab his hand back. Michelle hung her jacket over the back of her chair and scanned one of the menus. There was a specially made Christmas section with options like elf cookies, frosted candy canes, and Christmas cake.
"This place has a lot of good options," said Mrs. Webster, scanning her own menu. "There's even a vegan section."
Mr. Webster groaned. "Don't tell me you're going to go vegan as well as stick to this diet."
"Maybe not vegan," conceded Mrs. Webster. "But I have thought about going gluten free. I was reading this health book that illustrated the risks of consuming gluten—"
Michelle drowned her mother out with a silent sigh. When her mom started talking about health, she never stopped.
"What about you, Shel?" Mrs. Webster stopped talking when she realized her husband had interrupted her. She fixed him with an annoyed glare.
Michelle scanned the menu again. "The beef stew, I guess."
"And you, Monsieur Tommy?" he asked jokingly. Tommy seemed to be playing with the kids menu more than reading it. "You sure look like you're carefully assessing your options."
"Chicken nuggets and fries," Mrs. Webster surmised without looking up from her menu. "The usual for him."
"I'm surprised you're not insisting he eat healthier, too," joked Mr. Webster.
Mrs. Webster put the menu down and fixed him with a disapproving frown. "Herman, I wish you'd be more encouraging about this diet plan of mine. It's hard enough sticking to it without you poking fun at me at every opportunity."
Mr. Webster looked surprised. "Honey, I'm not trying to—"
"Of course you aren't." With a huff, she returned to her menu.
There was an awkward silence.
"Well, beef stew for Michelle, and chicken nuggets for Tommy," surmised Mr. Webster. "And for me..." He flipped through the menu. "I'm going to try something different. How about... an exotic chicken salad?"
Mrs. Webster laughed behind her menu. "Very funny, dear."
"No, I'm serious," insisted Mr. Webster. "The description does sound pretty appetizing. An exotic, gourmet salad with roast chicken, fried tomatoes, fresh basil leaves—"
"If you can eat something like that, I'll order a whole chocolate cake."
"Deal."
"What?" She looked up from her menu. "Herman, I didn't mean—"
"Aren't you always pressuring me to eat healthier?" retorted Mr. Webster.
"And you're always pressuring me not to eat healthier."
"Exactly. So why don't we take each other's advice for once?"
She huffed. "That's different. You don't tell me to eat a whole chocolate cake."
"But it's Christmas," noted Mr. Webster. "Surely you can cut yourself some slack. And, tell you what, I'll even eat whatever you serve for breakfast tomorrow."
"Whatever I serve?" A wry smile crossed her lips.
Mr. Webster sighed. "I already regret saying that, but yes. So, Sharon, do we have a deal?"
"I feel like a teenager," sighed Mrs. Webster. "Oh, alright."
"I knew you had it in you!" cheered Mr. Webster.
"But the cake is only for dessert, and only whatever quantity they have it in."
"Who are you rooting for, Michelle?" Mrs. Webster turned to Michelle, seeming to ignore his wife's last statement. "Just kidding, I know you want me to win. Your mother can't have one slice of cake without thinking about the calories nowadays."
"You can't have one bit of salad either," retorted Michelle.
"She has a point," noted Mrs. Webster with a smirk.
"So what sugary treat will you have for your meal?" asked Mr. Webster.
"I said I'd have it for dessert," Mrs. Webster pointed out.
"But that's not fair. I have to pick the salad."
"You can have dessert too. So it is fair," retorted Mrs. Webster.
"Fine," conceded Mr. Webster. "I guess you want the chicken salad as well?"
"Something a little healthier than that." She scanned the menu. "To make up for the sugar I'll be digesting later."
"Healthier?" Mr. Webster repeated incredulously. "What could possibly be healthier?"
"How about this gourmet cabbage soup?"
Mr. Webster put on a horrified look. "Cabbage soup? You're kidding."
"You're right, I am," she admitted. "It's vegetable soup."
His expression didn't soften. "Like that makes it better?"
Michelle found such playful repartee between her parents refreshing. They rarely bantered or argued without anger or frustration.
A short while later, the waiter arrived. "What will you be having?"
"Chicken salad, ca—vegetable soup, chicken nuggets and fries... what did you want, Michelle?"
Michelle strained to remember her order as the waiter scribbled in his pad. "With or without dressing?"
"Huh?"
"The cabbage soup, sir."
"Uh..." Mr. Webster looked at his wife, silently asking. She smirked in response. "Without," he replied gloomily.
"Is that it?" asked the waiter.
"What do you want, Michelle?" Mrs. Webster repeated.
"Beef stew," she said, suddenly remembering.
As the waiter left, Michelle quickly found herself bored. She usually was at restaurants. Usually she'd do her hair or nails to pass time. She hadn't brought her hairbrush or nail polish. She didn't think she even had nail polish or makeup at eleven.
She thought about what would happen when she woke up the next day. She's probably be two years younger, as the pattern showed. She was eleven now, so she'd be nine. She hoped she'd be back at her house. Her only hope was getting to Anthony's Antiques.
"Shelly, look!" Tommy interrupted her thoughts by shoving the scribbling he'd done in the coloring in section of the kids menu in her face.
"Er, very nice, Tommy." He had drawn over the outline with a bunch of blue and purple scribbles with the crayons provided, not making any effort to stay in the lines.
Tommy beamed as if she'd told him it was the best picture she'd ever seem. "I draw something." He picked up a crayon and started drawing again.
When she tried to lean over to see what it was, he held his little hand up. "No!"
She realized he didn't want her to look until he was finished coloring. She obediently looked away, still thinking about how to stop the time travel and get back to her fifteen-year-old self. Hell, she'd even relive the infamous Christmas party if it meant things would get back to normal.
"Look!" She turned her head upon hearing Tommy's voice. On the back of the paper, he had drawn a picture. If you could even call it that. If Michelle squinted, it looked vaguely like a very tall, very misshapen person in red and beige.
"Very nice, Tommy," she repeated dismissively.
"What is it?" He beamed at her.
"Uh..." She inspected the picture. She could vaguely see a circle under brown scribbles, and a red rectangle a bit underneath, with two lines each sticking out of two sides.
When she didn't reply for a while, Tommy spoke up. "You don't know?" His face fell, his lower lip trembling.
Michelle knew she'd likely get an earful from her parents when he started crying. "Uh..." She wracked her brains. What could a rectangle with lines under a scribbled over circle represent? Suddenly, an idea struck her and she went with it, hoping that it was right. "Is it me?"
The joyful look on Tommy's face confirmed her guess. "You do know!" He leaned over and hugged her.
A few minutes later, Michelle was bored again. She took her scarf off and placed it on the table, tying several small, loose knots into it for her amusement.
Just then, the waitress arrived with the beef stew. Michelle's parents gestured to her, and the waitress placed the bowl in front of her. As the waitress left, Michelle scattered the croutons over the stew. The smell was tantalizing, and she decided to focus only on her meal and forget about the time travel going on.
The spoon was up to her lips when she felt a hot, burning pain in her lap. She cried out and let go of the spoon, getting it on her lap as well. Looking at the table, she saw stew spilled everywhere and Tommy crying and holding her scarf over his hand. It was quickly soaking up the stew that had spilled there.
Michelle hissed and lifted her dress from her thighs, waiting for the burning to recede. She grabbed napkins from her handbag and wiped them over her thighs.
"Don't cry, honey," she heard her mother soothe as she held Tommy in her lap. He buried his head into her chest, wailing as if his hand had been cut off. Mr. Webster had was gently patting him on the back.
A waitress came over to their table. "May I help you?"
"Oh, the soup spilled on him," explained Mrs. Webster, before returning to shushing Tommy
"I'm awfully sorry to hear that. Shall I get some napkins?"
"Yes, please. That'd be great." Mrs. Webster tried to talk to the waitress and soothe Tommy at the same time.
"We'll get you another soup, of course. Which one was it?"
After Mrs. Webster told her and the waitress left, she returned to soothing Tommy, shushing him and running her fingers through his hair. Michelle cringed, aware of the people staring at them. Thankfully, most of them turned away once they realized it was just a crying toddler.
As the worst of Tommy's crying abated, a waiter returned with a box of napkins and his meal. Mrs. Webster took a very generous amount—unnecessary, in Michelle's opinion—and wiped them over his body as if he had been bathing in soup. She held a fry up to his mouth, but he didn't eat it. Instead, he gazed at Michelle from across the table, now sitting normally on his mother's lap instead of with his head buried.
He sniffled, tears still running down his chubby cheeks. "I sorry, Shelly."
"Huh?" Michelle was taken aback.
"I try to take your scarf. I want to try it on. But I spill soup." His face crumpled, and he looked like he was going to cry again.
Of course, Mrs. Webster hugged him tighter. "It's not your fault, dear. It was just an accident."
He sniffled. "But—"
"I'm sure Michelle understands," cut in Mr. Webster. "Right, Michelle?"
Michelle rolled her eyes, knowing her mother couldn't see her as she was too focused on Tommy. "Yeah. Totally."
She did recognize the sarcasm in her voice, and shot her a glare before returning to Tommy. Michelle resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. Her parents hadn't even asked if she was okay.
Suddenly, she realized something. Tommy had genuinely felt remorseful for spilling soup. If not, he was an incredibly talented child actor. It was her parents who had brushed his apologies off. Eight-year-old Tommy never seemed to feel remorse for all the things he did to Michelle. Perhaps his parents taught him not to.
When Michelle and her parents' orders arrived, she made sure Tommy was at the end of the table and the soup was away from the edge of the table before trying it. It tasted as good as it smelled. She was almost more invested in it than her father trying to eat his salad.
"I like chicken," he said, spearing a piece onto his fork as if to prove it. "So it can't be that bad, right?" He took a nibble, making an exaggerated face. "Is this real chicken?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Webster as she raised her spoon to her mouth. "If anything, it's realer than the fried rubbish you usually eat."
"Well, it's... not bad," Mr. Webster admitted. "A little bland, but nothing a little gravy and salt can't fix."
"You do realize that would negate the health factor, right?" noted Mrs. Webster.
"Oh, Sharon. I'm sure the leaves are more than enough to make up for the added calories." His eyes travelled to the salt shaker at the middle of the table.
"Herman..."
"Please?" he begged, sounding like a hyper toddler. "I won't put much on, and I'll still eat the salad."
"Oh, alright," she conceded. "I'm not that cruel. But if you lie and cover it all in the stuff, I'm winning the bet."
"I wouldn't dream of it." He kept his word, only adding a light sprinkle to his salad. He nibbled a piece of chicken with the salt. "A little better."
"Now are you going to have your first real bite?" asked Mrs. Webster. "You've taste tested the chicken enough."
"Give me some time, will you? You shouldn't rush a food critic." He gathered basil leaves, lettuce, chicken, and a tomato onto his fork and forced it into his mouth.
"How was it?" asked Mrs. Webster with a smirk.
"It's... fine," he replied after a pause. "The lettuce is too bitter, but the tomato and basil leaves aren't bad."
"See. Was that so torturous?" she asked.
"Ye– no," he replied.
He ate the rest of his salad with complaint, though he left most of the lettuce untouched. Tommy had calmed down after eating his meal. He was smiling and bouncing in his mother's lap.
"Try the soup," suggested Mrs. Webster.
Mr. Webster made a face. "Don't push it."
"No, really! It's good. Honest." She took a spoonful as if to demonstrate.
"I think I'll have dessert instead." He scanned the menu. "How about something from the Christmas section?"
Mrs. Webster groaned. "Here goes my hard work..."
"Oh, come on, Shar. One slice of cake won't kill you."
"No, but it might kill my diet." She scanned the menu, grimacing.
"Shall I pick for you?"
"No!" she interrupted. "I'll have the chocolate fudge brownie." She actually grimaced after saying it.
"I'll need something just as good to wash out the salad," remarked Mr. Webster.
"I thought you enjoyed it?"
"Yes, but I'd enjoy a... caramel Christmas cake just as much. Maybe even more."
"And you, Michelle?" asked Mrs. Webster.
"Um..." Michelle looked at the dessert section. "Vanilla ice cream."
"That's it?" teased Mr. Webster. "Show some adventure, Shel."
"I should've chosen that!" groaned Mrs. Webster.
"And you, Tommy?"
"Ice cream! Ice cream!" the little boy chanted.
"Hmm... I couldn't hear him that well, but I think he said... ice cream?" joked Mr. Webster. "And what flavor?"
"Chocolate! Chocolate!"
"I think he said vanilla too. Michelle, what have you told him?"
Tommy frowned in exasperation. "Chocolate! Chocolate!"
"Okay, okay."
When their desserts arrived, Michelle absent-mindedly licked the ice cream on her spoon while watching her mother stare at the brownie the way Tommy stared at brussel sprouts. Her father was tearing into his cake almost the same way Tommy was tearing into his ice cream.
Had this deal actually caused her parents to become Tommy? Now that was a horrifying thought.
Her mother forced the brownie into her mouth. "You know... even though I can actually feel the calories rolling in, damn if it's not delicious."
"Didn't I tell you?" grinned Mr. Webster. "You should try this cake. It's not half bad."
"Don't push it," echoed Mrs. Webster.
She wiped Tommy's chocolate-stained face with the napkins provided after she was done eating. "You know, that wasn't as good as I expected," she told Mr. Webster. "I mean, it was good at first, but then... I don't know. I've been avoiding chocolate for so long it doesn't taste as good to me."
"In that case, remind me not to go on a diet," quipped Mr. Webster.