I stepped through the heavy back door of my white little duplex. Dad’s meatballs cooked in the slow cooker. I threw my backpack onto my bed, re-tied my light up sneakers and ran for the front door.

“Hey, Skyler!” I yelled through the open field. We ran, as fast as our legs would carry us, between my house and hers, pretending to be anything but ourselves.

The sun set and the air showed on our heavy breaths, I shouted, “See you tomorrow!” and ran towards the back door of my little white duplex.

My nose danced. I balanced on my tiptoes to stare at my reflection in the silver pot of hot water and spaghetti. The serving spoon next to the crock pot taunted me.

My brother ran up from downstairs and snatched a glass to fill with milk.

I jumped into my seat. I plopped the spaghetti on my plate, poured on meatballs, sauce, and parmesan cheese. My stomach yelled back with delight.

My dad started singing. “On top of Old Smokey, all covered with cheese.”

I joined in, my chin dripping with red sauce. “...Sat my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed.”

My brother joined, his voice cracking with every word. “...Rolled off of the table, and onto the floor.”

My mom sang, taking a break between mouthfuls. “...And then my poor meatball, rolled right out the door.”

We talked about our days. My brother laughed every time I asked him to pass the “Par-me-se-ian.”

Our stomachs finally satisfied, I brought the plates to the kitchen. I wiped my face with water from under the sink, attempting to remove red sauce from my stained lips.

I grinned and yelled, “goodnight!” as I ran up the stairs with my light up sneakers, my stomach bursted with every step.