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That was the way it was, at least, until my sister turned on the flashlight. I could barely see her small face and long brown hair, because the light was so incredibly dull.
“What do we do first, Hunter?” She asked, “You said that Mom liked the confetti cake…” We were making a surprise birthday cake for our mother, and I had a fair experience in cooking, taking a few classes with some of my friends.
“Well I think first we should get the cookbook,” I responded, kneeling down on one knee to find the cookbook on the messy shelf. I found the book in between a container of salt and baking soda. When I stood up, I hit my head on the edge of the counter.
“Ow!” I yelled.
“Keep it down,” Robyn whispered, “we don’t want Mom or Dad waking up.” I had almost forgotten.
“Take the book,” I instructed her, “put it down on the table.” I held my head, it was screaming with pain.
“Which page?” Robyn questioned.
“The one I already dog eared,” I remarked. I could see in the mirror over the sink that my face was turning as red as a tomato. I also realized that my red curly hair was incredibly long, and that I should ask Mom or Dad to bring me to get a haircut soon.
“I’ll get the eggs!” Robyn exclaimed. She paused for a second. She tilted her head and tapped her foot. “Why aren’t you helping?” Robyn was seven and I was nine. I didn’t think she understood that I was in pain.
I sighed, “Just get the eggs.” I opened the middle drawer to the left of the kitchen table. I took out the confetti cake mix and brought it over to the counter. I then skimmed the cookbook, looking for what other ingredients to get.
Robyn limped back over next to me, “I stubbed my toe,” she complained, “it hurts.”
“Where are the…” I began, then turned to the kitchen table to see the eggs on the floor, broken into one million pieces. “You dropped the eggs!”
“It’s not my fault,” Robin pouted.
“Our plan is ruined.” I muttered.
“There may be more in the refrigerator,” Robyn stated hopefully, “I’ll check.” She ran over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and looked back at me sadly. “No eggs.”
I looked around in the kitchen and said, “Let’s make her birthday coffee.”
Robyn chortled, “Why would we do that?”
“Because,” I explained, “Mom loves coffee. In fact, she makes it every morning. We can make it for her."
“That’s no fun,” Robyn complained, “I want to make cake!”
“Well we can’t,” I told her, “here’s the ground coffee.” At that moment our father walked in the door. It turns out he had been getting Mom something, too. We saw that he had gotten coffee from the Starbucks down the street.
“I’m going to bed.” Robyn groaned. As Robyn left, I decided to follow her up the stairs. I then checked my watch. It read 4:44. I sighed.
It’s the thought that counts.