Free Lipstick Apology by Jennifer Jabaley

Jersey stared back from the other side.
    â€œThe only view I have,” Anthony said, “is into Mr. and Mrs. Delafonte’s apartment. And believe me, you don’t want your eyes to wander there.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    â€œWell, first, Mr. Delafonte’s not too shy with a knife and fork, if you know what I mean. So, he’s pushing three hundred. And he has a habit of walking around in his briefs.”
    â€œEeeew!” I said.
    â€œI know,” Anthony said, “and on one really unfortunate occasion, I witnessed him flailing his arms and legs around while watching a kick-boxing video.”
    â€œOh, get that man some blinds!” I said, letting out a big belly laugh.
    â€œGood God,” Anthony said in response to my outburst.
    I recalled one night when my mom and I were watching Saturday Night Live and I let out a hearty laugh. A strange, almost nostalgic look passed over her face. That laugh, she had said, out of someone as tiny as you. I’m surprised you don’t break a rib.
    â€œI know,” I said to Anthony. “I laugh like a man.”
    â€œA man?” he teased. “Sounds more like a flock of geese just flew by, honking and snorting.”
    I let myself laugh again, realizing it had been too long since I was amused. “Come on, let’s tackle this lab report.”
    We sat down at the kitchen table and I grabbed two donuts, shoving them in my mouth.
    â€œYou eat like a man, too!” Anthony teased.
    â€œI don’t always eat this way. Just when I’m stressed.”
    â€œDon’t be stressed,” he said. “It’s not that hard. I’ll help you.”
    I dusted off my hands and pulled out my notebook. I opened it up to the first page, which had one calculation printed in pencil at the top of the page. I had worked for over an hour on that problem, but now it seemed inadequate, filling up only two lines on the page.
    Anthony tried to suppress a smile, but the corners of his mouth quivered. He opened his canvas backpack, pulled out the beaker containing our mystery compound, and placed it next to his lab book and chewed-up pencils on the table. He reached again into the bag.
    â€œOh,” he said. “I almost forgot.” He pulled out a smaller white pastry box and placed it in front of me. “This is my specialty. It’s the best.” He smiled and pointed his finger at me. “Only when we finish this lab will I let you sample my masterpiece.”
    I shouldn’t have opened it. But even if I hadn’t, the smell would have given it away. Subtle lemon. I lifted the lid. A rectangle slice of lemon pound cake with a smear of sugar glaze on the top. Just like my mother’s. My mother’s lemon pound cake was like a secret bond between us. She knew one slice could jostle me out of any funk.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Are you really that bad at chemistry?” Anthony joked. “Emily?” he said. “Seriously, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “Forget it.” I shook my head and reached for a pencil.
    He opened the lab book and flipped through a few pages. “Allright, so the compound we began with had a molecular weight of . . .” His words sounded far away like they were in a tunnel. He put his pencil down and waved his hand. “Hello? Hey, are you okay?”
    â€œMy mom . . .” I said, clutching my pencil until my knuckles turned white.
    He nodded, waiting.
    â€œMy mom . . . she was a lemon pound cake junkie.” I pointed to the white box.
    â€œOh,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.” He put his hand on the box, almost as if he was trying to cover it up.
    â€œYou didn’t know,” I said. I was quiet for a beat. “It’s just that I finally started to make progress in my life, but all these little memories keep creeping in. And then I remember that my parents are gone, and my mom