The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh Page A

handoff. “Is that what you’re planning to bake in?” He looked me over, seemingly unimpressed with Greta’s “baking clothes.”
    â€œI’ll be right back. Crack that egg in there. The recipe’s on that card on the table, and the trash can’s under the sink.” I was already out of the kitchen, shouting down the hallway as I went to my room.
    Back in skinny jeans and an oversized plain cotton shirt, I rolled up my sleeves to prepare for work. I smiled knowing that Greta’s outfit now lay rolled in a heap at the foot of her bed. Gabe gave me an approving nod as he slowly beat the egg with a whisk.
    â€œSo about that photography project,” Gabe began. “Who are you going to feature?”
    â€œMy mom,” I answered hesitantly. Did I really want to go into it? Wouldn’t it just spoil the mood?
    â€œAre your parents divorced?”
    â€œShe died when I was eleven. Breast cancer.”
    It wasn’t hard to say anymore because it was so frequent a question that it didn’t really bother me, but I looked at Gabe to see if he was uncomfortable. But he just continued whipping the eggs, and I was thankful. Most people felt uncomfortable when I told them my mom was dead; they looked away, sighed really loudly, or looked at me full of pity. I always felt the urge to apologize. And I didn’t want to apologize for my mom dying. But Gabe just kept whisking. I had never felt so good after telling someone about my mom. How did he do that?
    â€œIt’s really special that you picked her for your project, then. I just picked my weird Great-Uncle Bob,” he grinned.
    â€œIf he’s weird, why did you pick him?” I opened a cupboard to take out the flour and sugar. Measuring three-quarters cup of sugar, I added it to Gabe’s bowl and cut in two whole sticks of softened butter.
    â€œUncle Bob’s missing his nose.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I let out a nervous laugh.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe’s missing his nose,” Gabe smirked mischievously. He certainly loved to shock and awe. “Lost it to frostbite in Korea, in 1950. He refused to get a nose job even though the Army offered to pay for it.”
    With Gabe, I never knew what to expect. Whether he was standing too close, grabbing my hand next to a stack of yams, making me smile after telling him my mother was dead, or telling me stories about his noseless great-uncle, I was constantly on alert. There was something very special about this long-lashed boy.
    The evening continued with storytelling from us both. He told me how he grew up in Brandywine Valley, how he had hopes of going to Penn State, and how he wanted to own his own nursery one day. The last part I found especially endearing. How many teenage boys would admit to wanting to grow flowers for a living? Gabe was different. He was sure of himself, and his passions were honest.
    At the end of the night, Gabe and I were both covered with flour. I was thankful I’d changed my clothes. I wrapped a dozen of the treats in aluminum foil as payment for Gabe’s help. Orange cardamom cookies happened to be his mother’s favorite, so he was grateful for the gift. I walked him to the foyer where his poinsettia sat in the corner. The room looked much more inviting with the red leaves. Indeed, it was beginning to look like Christmas.
    â€œThat,” he pointed to the planter, “don’t put it outside. You might even want to put it in there, by the fire.” He pointed to the living room. “They don’t like to be cold. Be sure to water it when it feels dry.”
    I opened the door to the mudroom, where he started putting on his boots and overcoat. I stood watching him, wishing he didn’t have to go.
    â€œWait!” he exclaimed, jumping up with one boot on. He hopped carefully on his bootless leg to the entrance of the living room.
    â€œIt was great meeting you, sir,” he waved to