Yellow Cabinets

My dad has yellow cabinets in his kitchen. My mom painted them all, once upon a time. A beautiful, lemon-buttery yellow. Maybe she was trying to import some sunshine. I must have 'helped' her, though I don't really remember it. There's one, slightly smudged little yellow handprint on the linoleum floor, right by the cabinet under the sink. I guess she missed it when she was cleaning up, and it dried and stayed. The linoleum's starting to curl a little bit around the edges, but there it is. I've never asked my dad if he's noticed it when he carries his dishes to the sink. I don't know which would be worse: for him to say, "Yeah, I know it's there, kiddo", or for him to just give me a blank look. So I never ask.

Right now, I'm rummaging around in these cabinets looking for ketchup. I'm making meatloaf and I have to have ketchup to coat it with.

I'd gone to the supermarket after school and gotten the ground beef, got the eggs, the milk and the breadcrumbs; onions, almost forgot the onions; and then some broccoli and a bag of pretty decent looking potatoes. I knew without looking that there wouldn't be any of those kinds of stuff in the house. But ketchup? Come on. Guys put ketchup on everything. My dad's got to have that. But the almost empty bottle in the refrigerator is too pathetic, and not enough of it even if it hadn't already separated, and gone moldy around the cap. So he's got to have an extra bottle stashed in a cabinet somewhere. He was an Eagle Scout. I remember. Mom told me. So why isn't he prepared?

After the second rummage through all the cupboards, I wish I'd gone to the library instead of the supermarket. That's what I'd wanted to do in the first place.

All the times that I've moved, books are the only friends I don't have to leave behind. They're always there at the next destination, waiting to say, "Hi." Even in an ends-of-the-Earth place like Forks. The interlibrary loan system is a beautiful thing.

But my old Forks Library card is expired, and I'd have to get a new one, and the wait for a book to come is usually about two weeks anyway. After being insulted and hated and glared at, I needed something now. Cold day, cold rain, cold apple in my stomach that had probably been sitting in a refrigerator since last October. I needed a hot meal. So here I am.

Except that I can't find any damn ketchup in my dad's – no, mom's – yellow cabinets. It's already 5 o'clock and pitch black outside and still doing this palpable Scotch mist thing, and I really don't want to go out again. Not to mention, Dad will probably panic if he comes home and finds me and the truck both gone.

Third time through, I finally dig out a sad little can of tomato paste from behind a box of Cheez-Its. It's expired, but only by a year. That's never stopped me before. I can do this. I know how to improvise.

_

Half an hour later, I hear Dad's cruiser pull into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. Cold, wet wind follows him inside. Even around the corner from the foyer to the kitchen, I can feel it. He hangs up his hat like he always does, shrugs out of his Police Chief's jacket, and hangs that up on the hook next to his hat. The gun and holster will get hung over whatever chair he's sitting in, until they go up to their place on the nightstand by his bed. I didn't realize I remembered these things.

He's in the kitchen, now, kind of stopped short, right in the middle between the counters, with the yellow cabinets all around us.

"Hey, Dad."

"Bella." He looks around at what I've been doing. "You don't have to do this, Bella. I was going to take you out to Bessie's tonight."

The diner. I wonder if he's eating there every night, now.

"We can go tomorrow night."

He gives me a long look. I pray for him not to ask me any questions I don't know how to answer, like, "When did you get to be so grown up?"

Finally, he says, "I'll go get cleaned up."

And that's my dad.

We eat in the breakfast nook, which is a little bow window in the kitchen. I honestly don't remember ever eating in the dining room. But with a real meal on the table, the nook is almost cozy. I'm sneaking little looks at him while his head is down, scarfing the baked potatoes. He looks the same to me, same as I remember. Same dark hair, same dark eyes, pretty fit for a guy pushing forty. I guess he has to be, in his line of work. The skin on his face is changing, though. It looks … weathered. Our silverware, knocking and scraping on the plates, sounds loud, like the windy drizzle outside.

"How was your first day?"

"Ok."

"Kids treat you ok?"

I know what he's fishing for, so I give it to him. "There's a girl named Jessica; she's pretty friendly."

"Jessica Stanley?"

It's got to be her; can't be anyone else, so I just say, "Yeah."

"Her family are good people. Solid."

Thanks, Dad. Got me in with the solid folks.

But I don't want him to see my expression, which is a weird mix of embarrassed and resigned and grateful for good intentions, so I duck my head down like I need a shorter distance to get the broccoli off my plate and into my mouth.

"Did you call your mother?"

What?

"She'll be wanting to know you got here okay."

I thought you were going to call her.

"I'll call her tonight, I guess."

"Don't call too late. She's an hour later than us, you know."

I do know, actually. I just came from that time zone.

"Ok."

Guaranteed, now, when I check my email, there's going to be five from my mom since yesterday.

I get up to clear, and my dad gets up, too.

"I got it, Bells. You go do your homework, now." And he takes the plates and silverware from my hand.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Nice dinner, kiddo. We'll go to Bessie's tomorrow night." And I know that sometime when I'm not looking – maybe when I'm in the shower – a twenty is going to find its way onto my dresser.

_

It's only 8:00 Pacific Time when I call my mom. I really am dead tired. It's the same questions as with Dad, but it takes way longer. A couple of tree branches outside my window are clicking their twigs against the panes.

"Any cute boys?"

Here it comes. The Spanish Inquisition.

"I guess."

"Bella, you're sixteen. It's your time."

Please.

"Is Dr. Callaghan still practicing?"

Dr. who?

"He was your pediatrician."

"Mom, I have no idea."

"Have your father take you in. He can prescribe birth control for you if you need it."

"Mom! It's the first day. Oh my God!" I can't help squirming under the quilt, which is wrapped around me up to my waist.

"I know, but you want to be prepared. You know how to use a condom, right?"

Jesus Christ, why does she have to say stuff like this? I don't want to think of condoms when I think of Edward Cullen. Not that I, Edward Cullen, and a condom will ever be in the same room at the same time. Ever. But why does she have to gross me out from ever thinking about him again? Or is this a mother's secret weapon for making sure that her daughter dies a virgin?

"Bella?"

"I'm right here, Mom."

"Everyone's doing it, Bella. It's a fact of life with your generation. I don't have my head in the sand. You don't want to be pregnant in high school."

And there it is. Why don't you just say it straight to my face? Dad was a mistake. I was a mistake. If you could, if you could, your life would start with Phil.

I know that's not fair. Mom loves me, and she used to love Dad. I'm pretty sure. But since when are feelings ever fair?

"Mom, I got homework." Homework. Your straight-A student. Your honor roll girl, that you're so proud of on your bumper sticker. Doing everything in my power to not be the you that you regret so much. But it's still not enough. You still have to say stuff to me like this.

"I gotta go."

"Okay, sweetie. I'll talk to you again. Wait 'till after nine your time, the minutes are free then."

"Okay. Bye, Mom."

"Bye, honey."

"Bye."

My books are still in my backpack. My hair is still damp from washing. Thank God I did that before this phone call. Now all I can do is curl up under the quilts, and stuff my head under the pillow. It doesn't help. If this keeps up, I may have to join the Cullen coven – except it won't be mascara making black circles under my eyes.