Free INFECtIOUS by Elizabeth Forkey Page B

paid me with a whole side of venison. We decided to keep the meat for
some time when it could be special. A pick-me-up of real steak on a tough day
like today is just what I need to feel better. My mouth is watering.

 
    Opening the
kitchen door I stand rooted at the sight of him. My smile falls off of my face
in slow motion leaving me standing with my mouth open. If my eyes aren't lying,
he is sitting at the table drinking a glass of my milk. Aunty doesn't like milk but she gets it for me when she
cleans for the Brock family. They have the only cow in town and the milk is
precious to the whole community.

 
    Why is this
happening to me? Am I being too dramatic about milk?

 
    Matt raises his
eyebrows at me and, without breaking eye contact, he chugs the rest of the
glass—so fast that some milk dribbles down each side of his mouth.  

 
    I really hate
him.

 
    What a horrible
waste of milk.

 
    Aunty sees me
there, stalled in the door frame and staring, and she tries to ease the
tension. "Ivy, Matt is just six months older than you. He's 17."  

 
    Her lame attempt
only adds to the awkwardness. Matt and I stare at each other until I look away
from him and his uncomfortably blank expression.  

 
    Oh my gosh .

 
    Call me slow,
but it is just dawning on me that she has invited him to eat with us! I am
furious again. I feel my face flush red with anger and my lips purse in an
attempt to hold in awful words. Aunty is shooting piercing eyes at me, her
frustrated face heavy with meaning. She's subliminally insisting that I behave
myself. I send angry brown eyes back at her with my own face-full of silent
communication—depressed obstinance .

 
    "I thought
we'd share our venison with Matt," she says with too much pleasantry.
"Can you please make us some fruit salad, dear?" She brushes past me
to pull something from the refrigerator and surreptitiously squeezes my
hand.  

 
    Her love squeeze
is supposed to be encouragement. But all I can think is she made the venison
for him, not for me. My venison. Without
even asking me. The conviction in my heart returns and I know I should
be gracious. Pretty sure I can't muster gracious right now. Hunger moves my
legs forward to the pantry where I numbly pick through the jars of fruit that
we canned over the summer. I open different sized glass jars with peaches,
pears, and blackberries and pour them into a pretty pink glass bowl.

 
    Aunty has laid
out the good china for me to set the table with. We only use the china when we
have special guests for dinner. Not just everyone we feed warrants the use of
fancy dishes. Add "catering to a zombie" to our long list of weird
today. I think using the good china is definitely over the top! This jerk would
eat it right out of the pan with no problem. All this extra work is lost on
him. While setting the table already covered with our best table cloth, I
decide that she is starting to disgust me.

 
    When we are
finished cooking, setting the table, and pouring the drinks, we sit down.   Not once during all of this has Matt offered
to help with anything. He spent his time staring into space and spinning his
empty milk glass on the table. Oh, and we also got to listen to him tap his
foot with rude impatience.

 
    Nice.

 
    Aunty manages
constant grace and cheerfulness and Matt and I manage to not look at each
other. The minute Aunty hands him his plate, Matt digs in. Aunty clears her
throat gently and he looks up from his plate like a neanderthal with his mouth open, full of food.  

 
    "We like to
thank God for our food before we eat," she explains. "Ivy, will you
pray please?"

 
    Matt's looks
like a confused imbecile as he stares inquisitively at her, his mouth still
hanging open. I'm not in the mood to pray, but I don't say it. Aunty and I bow
our heads and close our eyes. Even without looking, I feel him staring at me
while he slowly chews at his food.

 
    "Dear Lord,"
I croak because I haven't been