so close to hope

XXIII

You're getting to the age when kids are starting to complain about getting up early. Even Lily, who is perpetually in motion, groans about school's early start time.

You get it. Back in the group home Leo would have to pull the pillow out from under your head to get you up, and then help you down the rungs of the bunk bed so you wouldn't stumble in your early-hour stupor.

It's not like that anymore. Now, you're what Roseanne calls a "morning person."

She groans when she says it, but it's a good groan. Like she thinks you're cute and not annoying, because Lisa's a morning person too, and Roseanne loves every part of Lisa, even the annoying bits.

Roseanne doesn't know that you only became a so-called morning person when you moved to this little blue house. Here -- with them -- breakfast is one of the best parts of your day. You don't want to miss a second, even on school days. There's something of a rhythm to it -- the way Lisa and Roseanne cross paths as they bustle about the kitchen, making coffee and toasting waffles and yawning without covering their mouths.

You're still sluggish, because some things will never change, so you usually just nestle into your chair at the kitchen table and slowly pull on your socks and tie your shoes. When you're done you sit back and watch, tapping your foot to the beat of the morning. You simultaneously revel in the routine of it and look for improvisations; Lisa stopping mid-sip to brush an eyelash from Roseanne's cheek, Roseanne reeling Lisa in by her belt loop so she can straighten out the collar of her shirt.

This morning, however, isn't like that. Not at all.

It's quiet, in a weird way. Like you're tiptoeing around each other. And you all know why.

Roseanne pokes at her cereal, staring into the bowl like there's tea leaves at the bottom, and clearing her throat every few minutes, like she's gonna say something, but she never actually does. Lisa sips her coffee, which isn't all that unusual, except she's sitting at the kitchen table instead of leaning against the counter, like she does most workdays.

And you? You cut determinedly into your waffles and take a big bite like nothing is wrong.

The thing is, nothing is wrong, in the grand scheme of things. You bounce your leg -- matching this morning's frenetic rhythm -- and take stock of your emotions (one of Dr. Kapoor's tips).

You feel weird and embarrassed and uncomfortable and curious and a little bit guilty, you guess, for not knocking. But there's something else simmering beneath all of it that you can't put your finger on.

You swallow your waffles and cut into them again a little too forcefully. Your knife scrapes against the plate. Lisa cringes at the sound. Roseanne clears her throat.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," she says, ending with a forced laugh. "Should we just talk about it? I feel like we should talk about it."

She glances at Lisa in a desperate sort of way, which tells you they've already discussed how this morning should go and are both too chicken to start. Lisa brings her seemingly never-ending mug of coffee to her lips and shrugs one shoulder. Your eyes follow the movement and you notice that she's blushing all the way down to her collarbone.

You clench your jaw as that unnamed emotion you're feeling (anger? no...) grows stronger.

"Some help you are." Roseanne mutters.

Then she turns to you and the look on her face is so helpless you almost laugh. Part of you wants to put her out of her misery, but the other part -- the frustrated (frustrated!) part -- wants to make her -- the two of them -- sweat it out for being such babies about this.