Free The Summer Kitchen by Lisa Wingate Page B

out.”
    “It’s okay,” Chris preempted. “I just need a check for Mr. Hengerson before tomorrow.”
    “What’s up?” I asked, to keep him from hurrying off to his room. We were always delivering checks to Chris’s band director for marching shoes, contest fees, extra lessons to help Christopher further excel in solo competitions.
    “My purse is on the dresser,” I said, putting on a robe and opening the door.
    Chris crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed my purse and brought it back to me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pulled out my checkbook.
    “How much?”
    “A hundred and seventy-five.” Christopher yawned and stretched, swaying on his feet, exhausted from another study night.
    “A hundred and seventy-five?” I repeated, surprised by the amount.
    “Mr. Hengerson sent my sax in for repair. The check goes to Cruize Music.” He combed a shock of overly long blond hair out of his face. Normally the coaches would have made him cut that by now, but lately they’d been tolerant with Chris, in consideration of our family’s grief.
    “I didn’t know your sax was broken.” Propping the checkbook on my knee, I started filling in the numbers.
    “Yeah.” He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. “It’s been screwed up for a while.”
    “It has?” At one time a problem with his sax or his guitar would have been an immediate cause for alarm— somebody call 911. “Why didn’t you get it fixed?”
    He shrugged, his yawn fading into a sigh. “It was no big deal. I played one of the school instruments this semester. Hengerson said if I didn’t bring a check and get my sax back before summer break, he wasn’t going to release my grade, though.” He punctuated the sentence with an eye roll and a sardonic laugh. “Bust my butt in physics and advanced English, and now I’m gonna flunk band.”
    My motherly sixth sense came out of hibernation and perked up. “You left your sax in the repair shop? All semester? You hate playing the school instruments.” Nothing the school owned was even close to the quality of the saxophone we’d given Christopher his freshman year.
    Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Chris looked at the floor. “I’ve been busy. You know, the online college class and all.” Oddly enough, Poppy’s death and Jake’s sudden departure seemed to have awakened in Christopher the need to push himself harder academically. In the past, he’d been satisfied to be the prankster, the easygoing athlete who was Jake’s second fiddle, and admittedly not the most stellar student.
    “Oh,” I said, then tore out the check and extended it to him. “Chris, your music is important, too. There’s no rule that says you have to graduate from high school with twenty hours of college credit racked up.”
    Chris grabbed the check and tucked it and his fingers back into his pocket, ready to exit the conversation now that he’d gotten what he came for. “It’ll get me through to med school applications quicker.”
    It bothered me to hear him talking about premed. Six months ago, he’d been determined to study music, even though his father hated the idea.
    The sudden change in Chris was a subject I hadn’t found the energy to take on. On the surface, he’d held it together remarkably well this semester, but I wondered what was happening underneath.
    “Just make sure you’re taking time to enjoy being where you are right now,” I said. “Next year is your senior year, Chris. I don’t want you to miss out.” My mind filled with milestones of Jake’s graduation year—senior pictures, college visits, scholarships, awards, watching Jake step from the dressing room in his prom tuxedo, the class ring, the cap and gown, packing his things for college, buying new sheets, a towel, a laundry basket, which he ended up using to haul his laundry over to Poppy’s. Poppy taught him how to do wash. Poppy was suddenly the expert even though he’d never washed clothes until Aunt Ruth passed away.
    My