Page 37 of Cut Off
JONAH
It’s just after six a.m., and the house is already chaos. I’ve been up since five, game-planning every possible disaster that could unfold during Eli’s first day of school. Then after, the judge’s chambers.
Kitchen lights are too bright, coffee milk’s burnt, and I’m hunched over the counter with a knife in one hand and a sad, browning banana in the other, pretending that if I just focus hard enough on making the world’s perfect lunch, everything else will fall into place. It won’t. But I need something to do with my hands.
Zoe’s in a zone, hair knotted on top of her head, glasses riding low, barking orders. “The school said: two notebooks, sharpened pencils, colored index cards, glue sticks, wipes, granola bars, and—shit, did anyone get the second-grade supply pack from the front office?”
“You got it.” I snag it off the butler’s pantry countertop and hand it to her.
She takes it. “Thank you.”
Eli’s backpack slumps against the counter—torn, faded, and reeking. Next to it is the new backpack I bought before the game yesterday—a limited-edition Star Wars pack, the kind of thing I would’ve killed for as a kid.
Sitting beside that is a galaxy squishy—blue, purple, and silver, supposed to help Eli manage his nerves.
Zoe squints at the lunchbox. “Do you think he’ll eat hummus?”
“Throw in some chips. Maybe he’ll use them to build a snack fortress or whatever.”
“Good plan.” She lets out a low chuckle. She’s all chaos, but controlled chaos, and I wish I could siphon off some of that.
A soft shuffle echoes from the stairs. Eli approaches in too-big jeans and a T-shirt that hangs off his frame. I need to get him clothes that fit ASAP. He stops at the entryway to the kitchen, like there’s an invisible forcefield. He’s clutching that Flash action figure. His bloodshot eyes focus on Zoe.
She slides a granola bar into his lunch bag. “Good morning, Eli.”
“Morning,” he grunts.
I take my shot. “You ready for school?”
He shrugs. I’ll call that a maybe.
I grab the new backpack and offer it. “Hey, check this out. Got you something.”
His whole body goes stiff and his mouth pinches. “I don’t want a new backpack.” His voice is sharp and loud. “I want my old one.”
That’s it. One swing, strike out. That hope I had? Obliterated.
I try toregroup. “It’s just—your old one’s kind of—”
“No. I don’t want that one. I want mine.”
Zoe’s on it. “The old one is classic—got a lot of character. We just need to wash it so it’s fresh, but I know how to do that. We won’t put it in the dryer and mess up the patches or the straps. I’ll take care of it tonight. Deal?”
“Deal.” Eli doesn’t look at her, but the shaking in his shoulders eases. He slides into a chair at the island, relief pouring off him.
Zoe packs the old backpack—making a show of putting in each pencil, the notebooks, the action figure. She zips it up and sets it next to him. Then she holds out the galaxy squishy. “This helps when you feel jumpy. Works wonders.”
Eli takes it and turns it in his hands. But he pushes the new Star Wars backpack away from him with a single finger.
I’d laugh if it didn’t sting.
I go back to my list—triple checking everything.
Overkill. It’s all I have.
Zoe’s eyes scan the island countertop before zeroing in on me. “Did you get the forms from the front office?”
I hand them over, already filled out and signed. “Everything but my blood type.”
