Sacred Things

I wake up to the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. My brain shakes off the fragments of dreams and finally discovers that we—my brain, my body and the rest of me—are still in bed. It’s morning. I turn my head to the right, to an orange toy rabbit laying on my pillow. “Hey Stephan! Should I get up and rush to school?” In my head, I hear him saying: “No, girl, it’s not a school day. It’s Saturday”. The alarm clock on the nightstand says 9:00 a.m. and my parents are in the kitchen cooking breakfast and drinking tea. 

I hate it that they waste two morning hours for nothing. I know exactly what they are doing now. I don’t have to leave my bedroom to tell you that my stepdad is making his signature cottage cheese pancakes as he always does on Saturdays. They are half-sweet, half-salty. I can smell them through the shut door. The warm buttery scent is curling in the air mingling with a hint of vanilla and something toasty, like sugar meeting a hot pan. The pancakes smell so comforting. My mouth starts watering. I know for sure what is going to happen next—my parents will brew tea in a nice red and white polka dot teapot and then they will talk about plenty of insignificant things. 

What kind of life is it? Can they do something more…meaningful?

I am thirteen, and I know better what mature people should do. I am a mature person. I’ve felt mature since I turned eight. I’ve read all the books in our home library, and I’ve listened to all the audio theatrical performances broadcasted on the literature radio station. The only riddle I cannot solve is what my parents get from these stupid Saturday morning pancake-tea ceremonies. 

I throw a glance at the orange toy rabbit laying on my pillow. Stephan is my favorite toy. I got him from Maya, my older stepsister, for my eleventh birthday two years ago. Sometimes I talk with him. He understands serious stuff. “Tell me, Stephan, does mum love her husband more than me? She laughs with him, listens to him…but when it’s just me, it’s always about chores or piano practice. When he’s around, it’s like I disappear.  Are their talks more interesting than mine? More important? I wish she’d want to just BE with me, not just tell me what to do”.  In my head, Stephan goes, “Come on, girl, are you really jealous? You love him too. He’s been the only dad you’ve known for the past eight years. Get up and go to the kitchen”.

It’s cosy under my quilt. A random thought hits me—I’m always under it, but never sit or lie on top of it. It’s handmade, my grandmother’s creation, and it’s a crime in my family to sit on it. Sitting on it or—god forbid—lying on it, can ruin nice stitches. My grandma made it for me as a gift, deep purple satin on one side, blue and white rhombuses on the flip side, flowers here and there. I’d better not ruin this gift.

Another sacred thing in my room is a red Persian carpet on the wall. I can watch it as a movie. I see silhouettes of people, animals and castles, and whole stories evolving before my eyes—all in all formed from flower patterns and my imagination.

Now I feel fully awake. I stretch my arms and wiggle my toes and heels, getting everything moving. My thoughts, emotions and body are ready to coordinate their effort to get me to the kitchen. But wait. I hesitate. Should I get up and make an appearance in the kitchen or stay in my room a little longer? If I go, I’ll have to tell Mom that I didn’t practice my piano scales yesterday. I hate disappointing her. As a piano teacher herself, she’s much more in love with the idea of me playing the piano than I am.  And then I’ll have to eat Dad’s pancakes and drink tea for breakfast. Again. Bo-ring! 

“But…come on, you can do it,” Stephan says in my head. I nod, and let out a heavy sigh. My adolescent protest against the predictability of Saturday mornings falls victim to my genuine love of cottage cheese pancakes and curiosity about what my parents chat about without me. I secretly enjoy eavesdropping on these ridiculous stories and gossip.  Did our neighbour Igor from the third floor propose to Ira from the seventh floor because they’re in love or because she got pregnant? What are the newspapers saying about unidentified flying objects? And what did the head engineer at Dad’s work say about that new guy who dared to criticize the office know-it-all who, let’s be honest, wouldn’t find his way out of a paper bag?  Hunger and curiosity finally win. 

I crawl down from the bed, throw on a sweater and open the door to the Saturday routine. I feel happy to hate all of that. I enjoy putting on a show of how bored and annoyed I am. Obviously, I’m way smarter than my parents. Stephan can back me up. I am thirteen, after all.