Free Being Bee by Catherine Bateson

She was plain weird.
    â€˜I want to show your dad.’ Jazzi grinned at me and she looked younger. ‘This could be the last of the Toasterpedes, Beatrice. It may even be a new discovery. How many people do you know who have a Toasterpede? Let’s put him – or her – somewhere very safe. We don’t want to knock him over.’
    I had hoped that the Toasterpede would put Jazzi off her cleaning. After all, if that could live in our toaster, which was used every day, what could be at the bottom of the pantry? But nothing put Jazzi off.
    I had to do the cupboard doors while Jazzi scrubbed the microwave.
    â€˜The problem with doing this,’ I said, ‘is that if Idon’t do all of them the clean ones are going to look too clean.’
    â€˜So you’ll do all of them.’ Jazzi had abandoned the scourer and was attacking the inside of the microwave with a small plastic picnic knife.
    â€˜I suppose that could be the answer,’ I told her bottom which waggled from side to side as she jabbed around with the knife, ‘but I think my elbow is starting to ache.’
    â€˜Just keep going, Beatrice.’
    There were stains that it almost hurt to remove, because they were part of my life. Like the bit of my last birthday cake when Dad dropped the chocolate he’d burnt in the microwave. I thought about mentioning to Jazzi that we weren’t just cleaning cupboards but cleaning out my memories, but her bottom looked too fierce.
    When I’d done the cupboards, we stacked the chairs on the kitchen table and Jazzi swept up, with me following with the dustpan and brush.
    â€˜I think we’re doing this too soon. After all, Jazzi, you haven’t even cooked for the dinner party, so there’ll be more dropped things on the floor after that. Wouldn’t it be better to do the floors after the dinner party?’
    â€˜I don’t drop things when I cook.’ Jazzi turned around so suddenly that the dustpan fell out of myhands. She pressed her lips together until they went white.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that you startled me. Sorry. I’ll clean it up.’
    â€˜Yes, you will.’
    Jazzi had tucked her hair up in a purple bandana that went with her checked trousers. The back of her neck was all sweaty. She scrubbed the floor with a scrubbing brush, starting at the kitchen sink and working her way back, past the table and chairs and right to the hallway carpet. Some of the dark streaks on our lino tiles turned out to be dirt, but some were definitely part of the swirly pattern.
    She was going to do the fridge, but when we pulled out some old pineapple in an ancient tin, Jazzi shook her head.
    â€˜We should recycle,’ she said, ‘but this is a biochemical hazard.’ And she marched it straight to the outside bin with some old jars of dubious jam.
    â€˜I’m tired,’ she announced when she came back in. ‘I think we deserve a break, Beatrice. See if you can find anything nice in the freezer.’
    There were four chocolate ice-cream bars in the freezer. We ate two and watched TV while we waited for Dad to come home and admire our work.
    He thought the Toasterpede might be one of a kind, but we let it out into the front garden just in case therewas another one lurking around.
    â€˜Won’t it be a bit cold for it,’ I asked. ‘After all, it’s used to living in the toaster.’
    â€˜I think if it can survive that, it must be pretty tough,’ he said.
    â€˜It’s a clear night,’ Jazzi said, linking her arm through Dad’s and looking up. ‘Look, Beatrice, can you see the Southern Cross?’
    â€˜And the Saucepan,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh, that reminds me, Nick. Can I get rid of a couple of your saucepans? We simply don’t have room for them all and mine are copper-bottomed, much better for conducting heat.’
    â€˜Anything you want, Jazzi.’
    â€˜Thank you,