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An R.L. Mathewson Chronicle
Why was it so dark? Mikey couldn’t help but wonder with a groan as she tried to find the willpower to leave the comfort of her bed. It took several grumbles, a few muttered curses that would have immediately resulted in her spending the next month in her room if her mom heard her, but eventually she managed to shove the covers off.
It took a few more grumbles until she managed to sit up. Several minutes later, her feet touched the floor and she managed to stand up so that she could stumble her way to the bathroom that she shared with her brothers. Ten minutes later, five of which had been spent staring longingly back at her bed, she finished using the bathroom, brushed her hair and teeth, washed her face, changed into the Yankees tee shirt that Uncle Trevor had given her to replace her old Red Sox tee shirt that he’d incinerate, and peeked in on her brothers.
Once she’d made sure that her brothers were still asleep, she quietly stepped into the hallway and made her way down the hall to her parents’ room. Thankful that they’d left their door open last night, she quietly walked into their room, making sure that they were still asleep before she plucked the baby monitor off her father’s nightstand and left, closing their door behind her. As she went downstairs, she briefly considered waking up her uncle and asking for help only to dismiss the idea since Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday and he probably wouldn’t be happy to find out that she was taking over, especially since she’d never cooked a turkey before.
Although, she knew that it would all work out in the end she felt that it would be for the best if she didn’t involve him. Decision made, she made her way to the large kitchen that her father had designed and built for her mother and found herself shaking her head with a sigh, because this just wouldn’t do.
“You can’t cook,” Sebastian pointed out from where he sat on the kitchen island with the book that she’d taken out from the library yesterday.
“It’s not that hard,” she said, wondering what he was doing here.
“You woke me up with that sad display of rage when you kicked the covers off,” he said, answering her unspoken question, which of course brought up another question.
“You slept over again?” she asked, unable to help but frown, because she could have sworn that he’d left after dinner last night.
“Your mom saw you looking at cookbooks and grew understandably terrified. She asked me to stay over and stop you from doing anything that would cause lasting emotional damage,” he said, sounding bored as he continued reading.
“Wait. How did she-”
“Apparently, she wasn’t willing to risk you trying to channel your inner Martha Stewart and asked me to save Thanksgiving by reminding you that you can’t cook,” he said with a shrug.
“You can’t cook.”
“No, but see-”
“You really can’t.”
“I have a plan,” she said, licking her lips as she gestured to the stack of cook books that she’d carefully selected yesterday to ensure that everything went according to plan.
“Your dad put locks on the refrigerators,” he said, making her sigh, because there was no way that her father would-
Apparently he had, she thought, somewhat amazed to find all three industrial sized refrigerators that he’d installed for her mom chained shut with a brand new lock to keep her out.
“They weren’t taking any chances,” Sebastian said with a shrug that her contemplating the odds of picking those locks and-
“You don’t know how to pick a lock,” he pointed out with a sigh as he hopped off the counter and walked towards the door. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me up when it’s time for pie,” he said, patting her on the head with a sad shake of his head while she stood there, wondering why her family didn’t trust her.