Charlie Whitmen loves sports, junk food, video games, cars and basically anything-if not everything-your average teenaged boy would find interesting. But wait a second, Charlie isn't even a boy! Oh no, she's actually a girl!
Bet you didn't see that...
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Playing Knock-Knock on Hardwood
"Why do I have to do it?" Charlie grumbles as she watches her father remove the store bought cookies from their original container and arrange them onto a porcelain plate.
"Because your brothers are nowhere to be found," Mr Whitmen hums.
"Bullshit," she mumbles under her breath.
Once the plate is stacked, he puts it into the microwave and starts the timer. Then he twirls around and rests both of his hands on the kitchen island with a bold smile etched into his face. "Besides, nothing says welcome to the neighborhood better than a fresh batch of homemade cookies." The irony is beyond Charlie's control and she rolls her eyes. She makes a note to strangle each one of her brothers later for indirectly volunteering her to be the messenger.
"But you didn't bake them, dad," she reminds curtly.
The man laughs and sends her a dismissive wave. "They don't have to know that." The microwave beeps and Mr Whitmen pulls the plate out and sets it on the counter. He waits twenty seconds for the ceramic to cool before he shoves it towards his daughter. "Now run along." Begrudgingly, Charlie snatches the plate up and drags herself to the door. "And don't forget to smile!" he commands just as she slams the carved slab of painted wood shut.
It's fifteen past ten which, in her opinion, is far too early to be up and about on a weekend. Charlie stares at the house located on the other side of the street and then peers down at her pajamas. It's not her fault she's exhausted and doesn't want to change her clothes. Plus delivering cookies to the guy who makes her blood pressure rise isn't exactly what Charlie pictured her Saturday morning to look like.
She rings the bell and hears barking which she assumes is coming from Maxwell. Moments later, the door swings open and a woman in her late fifties appears in a pink apron decorated with cupcakes. "Hello, darling. Are you from across the street? I saw you the other day talking to my grandson," she questions eagerly.
Charlie sends her a closed-mouth smile, recalling her father's order. "I am. My dad asked me to give you these." She holds out the so-called homemade gift and waits for it to be taken so that she could leave. To her dismay, the elder doesn't accept them.
The woman's eyes sparkle in delight instead as she clasps her hands together. "Oh my. Are these raisin and oatmeal cookies? They're Ethan's favorite. Why don't you come in? I just finished making breakfast."
Charlie doesn't even get the opportunity to reject the invitation because the woman has already disappeared from sight. With the plate of cookies still in her possession, she steps inside and closes the door behind her. Maxwell, who is at the top of the staircase, leaps down and eagerly attacks her. "Whoa there, boy. Calm down," she chuckles as she ventures into the kitchen.
"He must like you a lot," Ethan's grandmother coos as she weaves through the area.
"Excuse me?" Charlie chokes, nearly dropping the plate.
