Chapter 3: The List On The Fridge
Lauren didn't open the notebook. She set it down on the counter next to the toaster with a soft click and left it closed. Her hand stayed on it for a second longer than it needed to.
I watched the cover. It was black and plain and the spiral at the top was silver. My pocket still had the two strawberries in it and I could feel them through my pajamas, one pressing against my leg.
Daddy was still kneeling next to me. His hand was still lightly on my shoulder. The dog bowl was on the floor by the back door where it always was. Orange outside, stainless steel inside.
Lauren walked to the junk drawer and pulled out the tape. She tore off four pieces and stuck them on the edge of the counter before she even picked up the paper that had been sitting underneath the notebook.
I hadn't seen the paper until then. It was white printer paper with lines on it in her handwriting, black marker, very neat.
She stood in front of the fridge and pressed the paper to the door. She smoothed it with her palm.
I could read some of the words from where I stood. At the top it said FOOD RULES in big letters. Under that there were rows.
Lauren stepped back so Daddy could see it.
It was a chart. I saw my name in the first column. Next to it were boxes and checks and the words breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack. There were notes in smaller writing. Portion = 1/2 cup. Earned. Privilege if completed chores/homework/behavior.
My plate with the corn was still on the counter. The fork was still on it. It was only corn, yellow kernels in a little pile, not even covering the middle of the plate.
Daddy stood up slowly. He let go of my shoulder and walked to the fridge. He didn't touch the paper. He just read it with his head tilted a little. I saw his jaw move.
"Lauren," he said, quiet.
"It's visual," she said. Her voice was calm again, like it had been in the hallway. "So she understands expectations. Kids do better with structure, David."
Daddy looked at the paper, then at my plate. Then back at the paper.
"Half a cup of corn," he said. "That's what this was."
"It was her earned portion," Lauren said. "She didn't finish her reading log last night. We talked about consequences."
I remembered the reading log. I had read three pages out loud and she said I wasn't focusing enough. I felt the strawberries again and pushed my hand a little deeper in my pocket to make sure they didn't fall.
Daddy's breathing got slower. He didn't look at me yet.
"That's not leftovers," he said. "You measured this."
"Of course I measured it," Lauren said. "Consistency is kind. If I just guess, it's not fair to her."
She said it like she was explaining something helpful. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Her cardigan was straight, her shirt buttoned all the way up.
I looked down at the dog bowl. It had kibble in it, a full layer across the bottom, brown and even. Max's bowl always got filled to the same line every morning. I heard Lauren pour it earlier while I was eating. She didn't measure it with a cup. She just poured until it looked right. It was always the same amount, every day. More than my corn.
My stomach made a small noise and I tried to be still so no one heard it.
Lauren turned to the sink and started rinsing out the coffee pot. Her back was to us. Daddy looked down at me for the first time since he read the paper. His eyes went to my pocket where the bump was. He didn't say anything about it. He just gave me a tiny nod, like I should stay where I was.
He slipped his phone out of his suit jacket pocket. He held it down low by his side so the click wouldn't be loud. He lifted it just enough to get the fridge in the frame.
I heard the soft shutter sound, once, then again. He tapped his screen and slid the phone back into his pocket in one motion. His hand was shaking a little.
Lauren turned back around with a dish towel in her hands.
"She'll have her lunch according to the chart when she gets home from school," she said. "If we stay consistent, she'll learn."
Daddy stared at the chart. The paper was taped perfectly straight. The magnets we used to have, the ones with my art and the pizza place menu, were all moved to the side of the fridge so the paper could be in the center.
May you like
"Okay," he said. It wasn't agreement. It was just a word to keep things from getting louder. He put his hand on my back. "Maya, let's get your backpack."
I didn't take the strawberries out of my pocket. I left the plate of corn on the counter. Lauren looked at the plate, then at me, and didn't tell me to finish it. The chart on the fridge stayed where it was, bright white against the stainless steel, and the dog bowl on the floor still had more food in it than I did.
