Page 12 of Don't Go
"Off."
He looked at me longer.
"Pickles."
He jumped down with the slow indignity of a man who was already leaving.
Blueberry pancakes. Bonnie's favorite. I made a stack of three and arranged the blueberries on top of the top pancakeinto a smiley face—two for eyes, an arc for the mouth, one in the middle for what was either a nose or, on a generous day, a soul—and I'd just set the plate on the table when I heard her door open.
Tiny feet. The tiny feet stopped halfway down the hall and went into reverse—Pickles had heard them too, and he was on his way. I heard the soft thump of him jumping off something, the slap of feet returning, the murmur of Bonnie greeting him in the language she only used on the cat.
She came around the corner with him in her arms.
She was rubbing one eye with the back of her hand. Her ponytail was sideways. Pickles was tucked against her chest with his head on her collarbone. He gave me a glance that said, "This is who I really love, not you."
I rolled my eyes at him.
At that time, I wanted a dog, and Bonnie wanted a cat.I can't believe I lost an argument to a six-year-old,I'd said this to Mrs. Park, on the phone, holding the cat carrier.
People say Bonnie is the little version of me. They couldn't be more right. Arguing with her is arguing with myself, and I've never won an argument with myself in my life.
“Good morning, baby. How’d you sleep?”
“Good.” She yawned. “Mommy.”
“Yeah?”
“I had a dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
She climbed onto her chair. Pickles placed himself in her lap like a king. She took her fork and pointed it at me.
“I dreamed you got me a new phone.”
“Mmm…”
“With the bigger screen.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And the better camera.”
“Eat your pancakes, baby.”
“My screen is so small, though, Mom. It’s like an ant-size. I have an ant phone.”
“You’re not an ant.”
“So why do I have an ant phone?”
“Because you’re eight.”
“That’s a straw man.”
“Eat your pancakes.”
“Mom. Mom, that’s literally a straw man, you can’t just — ”
