Page 30 of Hold the Pickle
“When is she due?”
“Four months.”
“And then?”
She plops more dough into the pot. “I’m helping them while they have a newborn.”
“How long do you figure you can stretch this?”
“I have a year lease. Max hasn’t spilled that I’ve moved yet, and I’m not telling anyone. But they’ll figure it out, eventually.”
“And you have no plan.”
She scrapes the bottom of the dough bowl. “I’m tired of plans. I want to go without one for a while.”
Her voice is laced with frustration. I’m starting to understand her, little by little. She had expectations thrust onto her. She’s not sure how to get out from under them.
I had nobody expecting me to amount to much of anything, not even Mom, who suggested I join her at the fast-food restaurant she was working at when I turned sixteen.
But I started studying for my SAT instead. I knew my grades were bad, but I somehow qualified to be a National Merit Scholar with my PSAT. It was the first jolt of success that told me that maybe I was smarter than I looked. That I had potential.
As I watch Nadia cover the pot and wash out the bowl, I can’t imagine the opposite scenario. That everyone tells you what you ought to be, makes you aim high. But when you get there, it’s all wrong.
Nadia must spot her cat because she says, “Come here, baby girl.” She sits on the sofa and pats the seat.
I hold still, watching the oversized cat slowly step out from where she’s peeking between suitcases. It’s a rare sighting for me. She mostly hides under the bed.
“Come on,” Nadia says.
Catzilla crosses the room, her gaze trained on me. I barely breathe, trying to avoid startling her.
She leaps silently onto the sofa.
“Good girl,” Nadia says. “My sweet baby.” She strokes the cat’s long fur.
“Do you miss rescuing kittens?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Sometimes. But once I got Cattarina, I had to stop anyway. She loved the kittens, but they were terrified of her.”
“I imagine.”
“Did you have pets growing up?” she asks.
I picture the places we lived, the shelters, the hovels, the single rooms in dingy houses. “No.”
“Did you want one?”
“Sure. I wanted a dog like most kids.”
“Catzilla loves dogs, if they’re not afraid of her. You could get one.”
I grin at her. “One secret pet might be enough civil disobedience for us.”
Nadia presses her cheek against Catzilla’s head. “I guess I should tell them I have her. With you paying half the rent, I can probably afford the fees.”
“You’re not half the rebel I thought you were.”
“You thought I was a rebel?”