* & MURPHY'S LAW.

[6/12/16, 3:44:23 PM] ♡ khaleesi swift™: Their bare feet hit the hot desert sand like fingers on a just-used iron, smoke curling from its gleaming, invincible face.  Night was falling, of course, and it was their birthday, of course.  Seven.  At seven they still retained the magic of childhood; the whisperings of Santa squeezing through a window left ajar (clad in a poncho and a Hawaiian shirt as Arizona camouflage,) the promise of clearance candy from Valentine's Day, delivered by the fickle Easter Bunny, the prayer for the tooth fairy and a nickel still warm on their lips.  But they were old enough to see other things as well- the row of mismatched savings jars all in a nervous line on the highest shelf in the parlor, a spray of coins in a few lucky ones.  The hope for a birthday cake was there; flimsy, but there, and always unfulfilled.  Keegan hoped for death- by chocolate, that is.  His twin had a different conscience- she'd be content with any rubbery piece of sugar-glazed flour, so long as it was topped with strawberry poptarts.  Arguing wasn't worth it- they both knew that they'd go to bed hungry on that young summer night.

Of course it was Nook who would babysit the children that day while their mother worked overtime at the hospital, tending to the sick but neglecting her own warbling kin.  It didn't matter- Nook was fabulously irresponsible, questionably moral, but, above all, extremely affordable.  He was twelve- or eleven, or thirteen.  Nook always gave a different number, but he was surely older than the two children.  As a clever, skeptical child, he used to request a bar of chocolate for his services- the luxury of it was unbeknownst to him at the time.  But now, with a burning fondness for Keegan and Raleigh, he would gladly do the job free of charge.

Nook picked the lock on the back door that day, rather than ringing the bell, leading the twins to believe that a rule should never be left unbroken.  He bore gifts, too; a wilting olive knapsack full of something sweet.  He lugged it onto the table with a soft muff, and white powder rose from the single side pocket and dissolved into the humid air.  Keegan inhaled sharply, his eyes like two massive round emeralds.  He stood on the single wobbly kitchen stool after winning a scrap with his sister, who sulked on the chipped tile floor in a pair of faded Ninja Turtles pajama pants that were too long for her.  “We’re going to make a cake,” Nook declared, unpacking the contents of his bag.  An old paper bag of Domino sugar, a Tupperware of homemade chocolate frosting, a plastic bag of ancient sprinkles, and a cylinder of flour that had spilled out into his backpack.  Nook cursed under his breath, and the twins leaned in to catch wind of the colorful words.  

He did not measure out his materials; merely guesstimated, poured what seemed right into a shiny metal mixing bowl.  Raleigh received the important task of cracking the eggs, and as expected, did a bang-up job.  Jagged, thin shards of gooey eggshell hung in her tiny fingers.  Her dark eyes welled up with tears, but before they could escape and roll into the sugar-scented batter bowl, Keegan soared and tackled her to the ground.  “Don’t get the cake dirty!” He whined, wooden spoon in hand.  Raleigh’s tears had instead spilled to the side of her face and into her dirty blonde hair, salty like a sour sea.  A moment was quiet, and then she batted Keegan’s freckled cheek with a right hook, twisting and biting down on his other forearm until she could feel the hardness of bone under his pudgy skin.  The two winced and writhed as Nook stepped over them nonchalantly, tray in hand.  Scrape every corner of the O’Malley household, and you’ll never find something as frilly and impractical as a cake pan.  So this would have to be a thin cake, a pancake, a tray cake.  Nook poured the bowl’s lumpy, dirt-hued contents onto the tray, looking not unlike pig slop.

It was to go into the oven for as much time as Raleigh could wait, which was not long enough.  She pulled it up from hell after a record six minutes, or as long as it took for the batter to solidify.  There was no time for formalities- this was their very first birthday cake.  It was ripped into strips and dipped into the frosting, doused in sprinkles that joyously rained to the floor.  The excessive amount of sugar humored their childish palates, and the three of them laughed and spilled a bottle of cream on the floor and drank pop before breakfast time and made a grand, summery mess.