“I’m just—really antsy,” I explained carefully. “I’m twitchy and nervous and feel like I want to be screaming through the sky on the way out of town, you know?”
“We know,” Nudge said apologetically. “It’s just—she’s going to make sweet potatoes with raisins and little marshmallows on top.”
I bit my lip hard in order to keep from saying, “Well, God knows that’s worth sacrificing our freedom for! Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”
Instead
I tried a smile that turned into a grimace, and turned around for a minute, as if I were examining the night sky. Through the vines. When I’d gotten more of a grip, I turned back to them.
“Okay, so we’ll stay for Thanksgiving,” I said reluctantly. Their faces lit up, and I felt an anvil settling on my chest. “Those better be some good sweet potatoes.”
79
“Did the thing pop yet?” Anne peered anxiously over my shoulder into the oven.
“Uh, not yet,” I said. “But it looks like it’s doing okay.” I compared the turkey in the oven to the picture on the stuffing package. “See? It’s the right color.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be done when that thing pops up.”
“I know,” I said reassuringly. I’d heard her the first fifty times.
“What if it’s defective?” Anne looked stricken. “What if it never pops? What if it’s my first turkey and our first Thanksgiving together and it’s awful and dry and we all hate it?”
“Well, no doubt that would be symbolic of our whole lifetime together,” I said solemnly, then made a “kidding” face. “Uh, maybe you could supervise Zephyr with setting the table? He looked a little lost with all the extra silverware.”
Anne looked at me, nodded, glanced again at the oven window, then went into the dining room.
“How’s that stuffing coming?” I asked Nudge.
“Okeydokey,” she said, fluffing it in a pot with a large wooden salad fork. She read the package again. “I think it’s done.”
“Looks good,” I said. “Just set it aside. There’s no way to make sure all this stuff comes out ready at the same time.”
“Cranberry sauce is good to go,” Iggy said, jiggling the can so it slid out with a wet plop into a bowl. “I could have made some from scratch.”
“I know.” I lowered my voice. “You’re the only one here who can cook at all. But let’s just go with the program.”
“I want a drumstick,” said Total, from right under my feet.
“Get in line,” I told him, and went over to Fang. I watched what he was doing for a minute, and he turned to me with an “I dare you to say something” expression.
“You’re an artist,” I managed. He turned back and surveyed the neat rows of marshmallows lined up across the casserole of mashed sweet potatoes.
“We’ve all got crosses to bear,” he said, and went back to work.
I leaned down and looked into the oven again. “Anne? The little white thing popped up. I think it’s ready.”
“Oh, my God!” Anne exclaimed from the other room. She rushed into the kitchen and grabbed some oven mitts. “It popped?” She was lunging for the oven door when suddenly she turned to me. “What if the popper thing is wrong? What if it’s not really ready?”
I looked at her. “Take the turkey out of the oven.”
She breathed out. “Right. Okay.”
Sheesh. Grown-ups.
80
Fifteen minutes later, we were all sitting around the dining-room table. Everything looked very schmancy. We had a white tablecloth and cloth napkins. Candles were lit. The food was on the table, looking like all the pictures on the packages.