“Naomi. Can you just tell me what happened at that park? You’re scaring me”
The room fills with the scent of frying pancakes. I place a bottle of real maple syrup on the counter and a platter of sliced fruit, my contribution to Sunday brunch. Ma wanted to send me with Bosco’s junk syrup, but no way was I bringing that to Debbi’s. I used my own ten dollars to buy the real thing, but it was worth it.
Debbi flips a pancake expertly and looks at me, eyebrows raised in an “are you impressed” way. I give her a thumbs-up and then plop down at their island. They have the prettiest kitchen, all cream-colored wood and brass handles, with these amazing brown leather bar stools. I’d be embarrassed for Debbi to see our old, orange kitchen, except I know she couldn’t care less. She’s not shallow like that.
“I feel blue,” I say, shoulders slumping forward.
Debbi sits next to me and puts a gentle hand on my knee.
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