Free The Girl Who Threw Butterflies by Mick Cochrane Page B

declare her independence. But things weren't going well. There'd been some mishaps. By the time her mother came through the door, there was a blackened pan soaking in the sink, cheesy debris all over the countertop, a melted spatula in the garbage, and the smell of burned oil in the air.
    Over the years Molly had watched her dad make plenty of omelets, and so imagined she could whip one up for her-self tonight, no problem. How hard could it be?
    Her dad liked to talk while he cooked. He recited little rules of thumb, cooking theories and principles, which Molly thought she remembered. Hot pan, cold oil. He was always saying that. Or was it cold pan, hot oil? Both sounded true. Her dad used to say you should cook eggs at the lowest possible temperature. Or was it the highest?
    And who knew there were so many kinds of oil? Vegetable, corn, olive, flavored and unflavored. Molly opted for olive oil, which sounded healthy, but while it was heating in her dad's favorite skillet, she got focused on beating eggs and grating cheese. She was wondering if cooking could be a Zen art, too, if maybe she could find illumination in the kitchen.
    Next thing Molly knew, the smoke alarm was beeping, a spatula, which she'd left too close to the burner, was melting down, and her pan was an evil-looking, scorched mess.
    Of course that was when her mother came in the door. She surveyed the scene, quietly assessed the damage. Molly had turned on the fan and disengaged the alarm, but still. It looked pretty bad. But Molly's mother didn't lecture or scold. She didn't say much of anything at all. She grabbed a dishcloth and helped Molly clean up.
    They worked together for a while in silence before her mother finally spoke. “Lonnie seems like a nice boy,” she said. It was a holdover remark from Saturday—her mother was apparently still puzzling over the boy at the door.
    Molly had dodged her mother's questions the day of Lonnie's visit the best she could, provided only the minimal background data. She'd told her that he was in Honors, which was both true and just the sort of thing she would like, and that they both liked to play ball, which was basically true, too.
    “Yes,” Molly said. She was sometimes afraid that every-thing she said to her mother could and would eventually be used against her. So she found ways to be pleasant but to divulge as little as possible. “He is a very nice boy.”
    “So,” her mother said. She was rinsing her hands in the sink with a kind of studied nonchalance. “You two are going out.” It was a classic interrogation technique: She wasn't asking a question, just floating an incriminating statement and then waiting for confirmation. It was how they some-times coaxed confessions from murderers on TV cop shows:
So then you killed her.
    “Mom,” Molly said. She tried to sound just a little exasperated, pained but patient, willing to school her mother. “Nobody does that anymore. People don't ‘go out.’ Theydon't exchange rings and go steady. We're just friends, boys and girls, we hang out together, all of us. Lonnie's my friend.”
    When Molly heard herself say that—”Lonnie's my friend”—it sounded surprisingly true. She was pretty sure she liked the sound of it.
    “Of course,” her mother said, and dried her hands. When she felt dated, she would usually back off. Molly didn't en-joy making her mother feel old and out of it, but it worked. Right now she was willing to do what she had to in order to protect her privacy.
    Once the kitchen had been restored to order, they made themselves sandwiches, peanut butter on whole wheat. Molly poured a couple of glasses of milk and they ate at the kitchen table.
    “How was practice?” her mother asked.
    Molly knew her mother meant softball, the girls’ team, but she hadn't said that, not specifically. “Fine,” Molly said.
    Technically, she was telling the truth, but she felt like she was lying, and she didn't like the sensation. She felt guilty being