Theo Cider

You wake up just before the alarm would have gone off and you know you don’t have enough time to fall back asleep. It’s six fifty-three. You can hear Mom cooking food downstairs, and in a moment you can smell it, too. Bacon, and something else cooking inside the microwave. She’s using the skillet for the bacon so the grease doesn’t escape, and the smell of sizzling smoked pork strips is enough to hollow out your stomach. 

You get out of bed and dress quickly, hoping to get to the breakfast table before your little brother and sister can eat all of the bacon. On the way downstairs, you see some kind of bug on the wall and you kill it with an old white-and-blue sneaker that never seems to make it out of the hallway. 

You tell your mom that you killed the bug. 

“What kind of bug was it, baby?” 

You don’t know. But it made a crunchy sound, when you squished it, like teeth on toast. 

“Hope it wasn’t a cockroach. We can’t afford to get rid of ‘em and we sure can’t afford to feed ‘em.” 

You grab a portion of the eggs that are sitting on a place in the middle of the table, on top of a stack Sunday newspaper coupons. You shove into your mouth as much as one fork will allow, anxious to have seconds before your brother Ty can get downstairs. Like a starving pride, it’s every lion for itself. 

“Slow down,” Mom says from the sink. “You’re gonna go ahead and choke yourself to death.” 

You ask where Abby and Ty are. 

“They’ve both got the flu that you had last week. They’re staying home today and I’ve got Grandma coming over to watch them while I’m at work, so be quiet upstairs.”