Free Infinite Sky by Cj Flood

and we went on with our lives, which were just the same except for being messier and less organised and much, much quieter.

Eleven

    When I woke the morning after Sam’s outburst, I had a plan. It was as clear as if I’d dreamed it. I was going to make him feel better. I rooted through the pantry.
We had flour and milk. I took some change out of the dusty fruit bowl and walked to the shop with Fiasco. The sun was in the middle of burning off a layer of cloud. It was going to be another
boiling day. I bought lemon, bananas, eggs and two kinds of chocolate.
    I looked through our ancient cookbook, and got out all the apparatus I needed. It was still only eight o’clock so I wiped the kitchen table down and swept the floor and put the pots away.
I even stood on Dad’s armchair to get rid of the tomato sauce on the ceiling.
    I fed Fiasco and the cats, and hit the ball as far as I could a hundred times, and then I couldn’t wait any longer. I made two cups of tea and carried them upstairs.
    Dad was reading in bed. ‘Good girl,’ he said, sitting up, surprised.
    Sam was less grateful. ‘What are you doing in here? Get out.’
    He pulled his pillow over his head and turned over.
    ‘Oi! I’m making pancakes. And chocolate sauce. I’ve been to the shop. I’ve got bananas and everything.’
    He lifted his pillow and peered at me.
    ‘You can’t make pancakes.’
    ‘I can.’
    ‘What, and chocolate sauce?’
    ‘It’s easy!’
    He rolled over as if he was going back to sleep, but I’d got him, I knew.
    By the time Sam came down, I’d made the batter. It
was
easy, just cups of flour and milk and a couple of eggs. I don’t know why I hadn’t done it
before. The butter had reached the perfect point. It fizzed gold, filling the kitchen with deliciousness. The thing was to get the fat really hot. Everyone knew that. I ladled the mixture in and
tilted the frying pan round like Mum did. Sam sat at the kitchen table, flicking his fork between his fingers so it knocked with both ends on the wood. The chocolate melted slowly in bowls on top
of the Aga.
    The first pancake was perfect. I let Sam have it. He peeled a banana halfway down, sliced it on, then spooned both types of chocolate over. He folded it in half, then half again.
    He hummed while he ate it with his hands.
    The next one was ready when Dad walked in. ‘Pancakes? What are you after?’ He moved the spoon through the batter, nodding his approval. ‘Here. You have that one. I’ll do
mine.’
    The pan hissed as Dad ladled in a new pancake. He whisked the mixture, even though I knew for a fact it was lump-free, and put the radio on.
    I lemon-and-sugared my pancake. Sam shook his head at me. He had chocolate on his chin.
    His scalp was so pale it was almost blue. The sun shining through the windows turned his ears coral.
    ‘Do you like it?’ I asked, pointing at his head with my fork.
    Sam laughed. ‘You obviously don’t.’
    He ducked his head, rubbing at it.
    ‘Yeah. It feels good.’
    I reached over and rubbed his scalp. It did feel pretty good, especially when you stroked the hair the wrong way.
    ‘Punky said this would happen. Girls can’t resist a skinhead.’
    I pulled a face. ‘Matty’ll cry when she sees it.’
    ‘Then she’s an idiot. It’s only hair.’
    ‘
That’s
a record!’ Dad said from the Aga, after an especially impressive flip. Fiasco watched him, drooling. Sam rolled his eyes.
    ‘Did Punky do it?’
    ‘No, Leanne did. She loves it. She’s even got her own clippers.’
    ‘Weird.’
    ‘I know.’
    He couldn’t stop touching it, and it was so strange how different he looked, just because he’d got rid of his hair.
    ‘Jesus, Eye! It’ll grow back,’ he said, and I didn’t even feel stupid because he’d used my nickname.
    When we’d eaten more pancakes than was okay, and Dad had gone to work, I told Sam my plan.
    ‘We’re going to finish the drawing. In your room.’
    ‘
We?
’
    ‘Yeah. I’ll help.’
    He did