“Pick me! Pick me!” Her hand bumps against my arm.

“Listen, Number 1, must you always be so—,” as usual, I never get to finish what I’m trying to say. The interruptions I live in the crowded box I call a “home” are dreadful; the snoring, the fighting, the continuous bumping, kicking, and shoving. Then there’s this—when I’m simply picked up and expected to go with whoever is carrying me.

Not this guy. Where is the wife? Oh, and there’s the little thing with her round tiny fists and fingers that barely work.

“Look out, Smart Ass!” Dog Lover shouts from the counter near the dishwasher.

I steal a glance around, and then I see Bailey, the hairy, slobbering, brown and white, wide-eyed, four-legged thing with the foul breath snort and then lick my arm. “Ick! Bailey, might I suggest you bathe your teeth,” I grumble at the round eyes as it sniffs my arm again and licks me once more. It’s so disgusting! I move closer to Bailey and snuggle into her soft coat.  Okay, she’s gross—but so warm.     

“What do you want for breakfast?” the Dad (or that’s what the round-fisted small thing calls him) says to her.

“French Toast!” Cutie Pie, says. (That’s one of little one’s names. Others are Honey, Love, No!, Knock-it-off!, Sarah, Sweetheart, You’re-Going-To-Hurt-Yourself!, well, the list is endless...)

“Ah, well,” the Dad says, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a t-shirt while he fills me up with warm, dark, roast bean smelling liquid.

Oh, I love the feeling.

But wait, the next part is not so nice.

Holding my breath, he grabs my arm and raises me to his lips. And here’s another thing that hasn’t bathed yet! The cupboard door still open, I see Sisters, Happy, Jobs, and Writer, all my work colleagues, laughing. No one else hears them or sees them, just me.

I make a note of the names: Yes, tonight I’ll get even.  One small slap (accidentally) to Sisters, oh, and Happy will get it when my foot strikes out, and I kick him in his bottom. Haha!

“Honey, I don’t know if I have time,” he says, checking his watch. “I need to go into the office today.”

Why, oh why, did he even ask her, then?

Honey puts her little fingers together. Her eyes look around. She stares at me as I dangle from Dad’s fingers. Below me is that hard, shiny surface where Peace lay, broken in pieces. The others never saw Peace after she was thrown into the shimmering, grey Monster that eats things.  

I was the last cup on the counter one night, and I saw Peace—she was smothered in blue plastic with tissues, some scraps, packaging from random things that don’t go in the blue or black recycling bin, or the compost. She said nothing, already gone. Her head was broken in two, her arm was still intact but was separated from the rest of her, and her body was in larger and smaller bits mixed in with other things.

It was accidental, of course, when Wife/Mommy/Beth had water on her face. One early morning, she’d made some hiccupping noise, and sniffled, and wiped the water that fell from those two big things, called eyes. It was weird because she’d just gotten up. I didn’t understand it. The Sisters said she was sad, and that’s how they look when that happens.

Meh, what do they know? 

But Beth was genuinely upset about dropping Peace. I was at the front (I get used a lot, not like the others), and I’d pushed the door open. On her knees, more water came from those two eyes, and she said, “I’m so sorry.”  

If I get dropped by this guy, though, I’m sure he won’t care. Instead, on my way out, all I’ll hear is a bunch of terrible words and yelling. Kicking my feet, I swing around. I don’t mind hanging around when I’m with someone competent (and when they’re awake) like Beth. It’s fun.

But Mark /Dad/Will-You-Stop-Already!/Why-Are-You-Like-That?/You-Don’t-Do-Anything-Around-Here/Honey (I guess names can be repeated? There’s only one of us in our room, so that confuses me, somewhat.) isn’t awake yet as he stumbles around, dragging his feet, and, swinging me like I’m nothing—

“Ouch!”

“Are you alright?” Sippy asks me.

“Yes, yes,” I mutter as I’m pounded onto the counter.  “It would have been nice if you waited until I got my legs under me!” I scream. “What?” I say, looking over at Sippy.

“Nothing,” Sippy says.

“What?”

“You scared me. That’s all,” Sippy says.

Sippy stares up at Sarah. Right now, they’re the best of friends. Unlike the rest of us, there’s no chance Sippy will break. Well, that’s what she thinks. I don’t mention what happened to Sippy One. And we never refer to this one as Sippy Two. She looks down at the counter.

“What, oh what is, the matter?” I say.

“Sarah’s sad. She wants French Toast.”

Looking up at Dad, I don’t say anything. I swear the rest of my work colleagues make sure I’m always the one chosen because I’m a pushover. Rolling my eyes, I huff.

Honey and Dad are at a standoff.  His lip twitches.

Closing my eyes, I sigh. None of the others have my abilities—not Jobs, Sisters, Happy, not even Number 1. But they all know what I can do.

I’m in the Spice Room now. “Cinnamon?” I whisper. I pass sleeping Tumeric, Basil, Cardamom, Currie, and Black Pepper. Moving further down, I find Parsley and Oregano awake, and they’re playing imaginary cards. Not that they know any games. I’m stumped, though, on how they would determine who the winner is? That’s not what I’m here for, though. Softly, so I don’t wake the others, I say, “Have you seen Cinnamon?”

“She’s in the back, to your right,” Oregano hisses. He’s seated across from Parsley.

I know right, is one side or the other. But I have a hard time keeping it straight. “Which way is that?” I say. Parsley, who had his back to me, stands, shuffles to one side, and then sits back down across from Oregano. I nod and say, “Thanks,” and head in the direction Parsley had shown me.   

“If you find Nutmeg, Cinnamon will be close by,” Parsley adds. I nod at him and whisper my thanks again.

Moving further in, I inch forward until I find Cinnamon, who’s asleep. “Cinnamon,” I say, “you’re needed.”

Her eyes roll open, and she yawns and mutters, “For what?”

“French Toast,” I say. “And bring your smile!”

Wide-eyed now, I watch as her long lashes flap, and she says, “Oh, it’s been so long! I’m ready!”

Sweetheart and Dad are still in their spots. I notice the clock hasn’t changed one minute when Cinnamon and I return to the counter. I stand next to her. Cinnamon squeals. “Don’t get too excited. I can make suggestions, but it might not work.”

“I know. But it’s nice to be remembered.” Cinnamon’s a grinning fool.

I sigh. No pressure. I look over at No! and there’s more water in her eyes than I’ve seen before. Hopping closer, in the corner of her eye, is one droplet that sits there waiting for time to start again. The father towers over Cinnamon, his eyes rest on Love. So, I move in closer to Cinnamon, and then I go behind her.

Now, he’ll have to look through Cinnamon to see me.  

The numbers change from 8:53 to 8:54 on the microwave. Thanks to Cutie-Pie, I know how to count, too, now.  

Walking over, Dad’s hand reaches for my arm. Looking backward, I see the droplet of water fall down Sarah’s eye. I hold my breath.

His fingers hang onto my arm. I’m still behind Cinnamon, who turns to me, winks, and faces Mark. Inching closer to Cinnamon, I look up at Dad and back to Cinnamon, who smiles brightly at him.

Dad checks his watch. Cinnamon stares at him, eyes wide, and her mouth changes to a small o.

Dad smiles at Sarah, “You know what, it’s Saturday. Let’s have French Toast!”

Sarah squeals, “Yes!” as her Dad grabs Cinnamon, pulls her to the front of the counter, opens the fridge, gets eggs and milk out, and pulls the white bread from the other side of the counter.

“Honey,” Beth’s voice comes from around the corner.

Inching my way backward, I look around to see her. “What are you guys doing?” she asks as she kisses You-Don’t-Do-Anything-Around-Here on the lips.

“We were just about to make French toast,” he says. “Do you want some?”

“I would love some,” Beth says as she wraps her arm around Sarah and kisses her on her round cheek, making slurping noises.

Mark grabs my arm, brings me to his lips as I scream, “Man, you need to bathe yourself—everywhere!”  as Sisters, Happy, Jobs, and Writer laugh from their room.

Yeah, I can do all that. But I can’t close the door to my annoying co-workers from where I am. Sometimes, life’s so unfair.

Penelope Hawtrey has been published in Potluck Magazine, the Furious Gazelle, and the Thieving Magpie. To find out all the latest, connect with Penelope on Twitter @pshawtrey or visit her website www.penelopeshawtrey.com.