“Wait — your bag, what about the bag I bought you?” she splutters, pointing

Mimi never understood the people who got first-day-of-school butterflies, until today.

Ma’s made waffles for breakfast. They smell heavenly, sweet and crisp, but Mimi’s stomach somersaults at the sight of them.

“Ugh, I can’t eat,” she mumbles.

“You sure, honey? They’re good.” Ma flashes her a wide smile. That’s Ma, always positive, always cheerful. Sometimes so cheerful that Mimi wants to scream.

Kayla clatters down the stairs. Mimi winces.

“Kayla! Special breakfast in honor of your first day!” Ma is persistently sweet. “C’mon, you girls need to help me out over here, otherwise I’ll have to eat them all myself…”

Kayla frowns. “If you do, you’ll get a stomachache,” she informs Ma. Mimi rolls her eyes.

Ma’s smile slides a little. “I was joking, Kay. I meant that it would be a shame for the waffles to go to waste.”

“Why?” Kayla wants to know. “If I eat it without wanting to, isn’t that just as much of a waste?” She opens the fridge. Mimi knows exactly what she’s looking for: one apple, one banana, one yogurt.

Ma sighs. “Never mind.”

Kayla stacks her tuna sandwiches in the garish orange lunchbox she’s used since first grade. Mimi lets out a faint moan. Ma throws her a questioning look.

“The lunch box,” Mimi says. “You’re in 11th grade, you can’t use that.”

Kayla slices grapes with irritating precision, inserts them into a small compartment. “Why not? It worked for first grade, second, third, right through tenth. What’s changed?”

Mimi is about to answer, but then she sees it: parked neatly beside the door, Kayla’s black attaché case, aka schoolbag.

“Wait — your bag, what about the bag I bought you?” she splutters, pointing.