Pranking The Prankster

Chapter 7

Song
Sunflower - Post Malone

______________________

Saturday comes and goes all too quickly for my liking. Mom and Tony went out again, and Blake's out canoodling with some girl so it's just me and Charlie tonight. I tuck him up in bed and head up to my own room. I barely close my eyes for five minutes when Charlie's up, shaking me awake.

"Anna? I gotta go."

"Mmph? Go where?"

"You know. Go."

"Oh." I drag myself out of bed and take him downstairs to have a wee. Then I put him back to bed and crash upstairs in bed again. But Charlie wakes me up again at midnight, trying to prise my eyelids open. He nearly pokes my eye out.

"Anna, wake up. Anna?"

"Yeah?" I groan. "What is it now?"

"I'm thirsty."

I take him back downstairs for a drink of water in the kitchen. I'm so tired I'm practically asleep on my feet. After Charlie's had his drink I take him back to his room and collapse in bed. I wake up at eight o'clock the next day feeling like crap. I heave myself out of bed and have a good soak in the bathtub for a good fifteen minutes before I amble downstairs.

I trudge to the kitchen to find Tony making breakfast in the kitchen, humming to himself. I slump into a seat and watch him. It takes him about five minutes before he finally clocks. "Oh, hello," He says cheerfully, "I didn't see you come in. Sleep well?"

"Not really. I had to stay awake and watch Charlie till he fell asleep after you guys took off."

Tony shuffles uncomfortably. "That's too bad."

He goes silent and goes back to whatever he's cooking. He's wearing Mom's 'Kiss The Cook' apron over his tight black shirt and jeans. It looks rather ridiculous, but he doesn't look like he minds. I sit at the table watching him, tapping a nail on the water jug idly. His long dark hair tangles over his shoulders as he works.

"So . . . whatcha making?"

"Crêpes."

"Crêpes? What are those?"

"Well, crêpes are more or less like pancakes. Here, try one." He slips one onto a plate and slides it in front of me. I eye it apprehensively, then take a bite. "Oh, yummy. These are pretty good," I say in surprise. Tony beams with pride. It's official: I'm in love with Italian food. I can't remember when I proper breakfast. Usually I just grab an apple or a cup of coffee on my way to school.

"That was pretty good," I say. "I take it you're a good cook?"

"Oh, yes," He says proudly. "Back at home, I ran a little cafe. Nothing big, but I earned good money."

"That's nice. So, uh, what about your kids? Where are they now?"

"Oh, they're visiting their grandma in Rome. They've stayed in Italy all their lives. I thought the change of scenery would be nice for them. Here, I think I have a photo . . . " He rummages in his pocket for his wallet and procures a small photograph which he hands to me.

It's a picture of Tony and his family the beach. His wife is there too, in the shade in the background, her tummy swollen over her sundress because she's months pregnant with Andrea. Tony is lying stretched out on the sand, looking just as brown and fit, wearing funny long bathing trunks down to his knees, and a much younger Reese is sitting beside him, busy burying his feet in the sand. He's wearing huge sunglasses and red-and-white swimming trunks, grinning mischievously at his dad.