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Emma clenched her fists, feeling the surge of protest building within her. After sitting in her room, stewing in anger over her mom's insistent request to leave her alone with Mark because they had "adult matters to discuss," she finally decided to step into the kitchen to prove she couldn’t just be ignored. As if staying in her room this long hadn’t already made it obvious she was furious?! Her steps echoed loudly in the hallway, each one demanding attention.
She took a deep breath, ready to unleash everything she’d bottled up, but as she reached the kitchen, she froze in the doorway. Mark was sitting at the table, lounging casually in his chair. His eyes were half-closed, a stupid half-smile plastered across his face, and an open bag of chips lay in front of him. The sharp smell of some strange herbal smoke was impossible to miss.
"Of course. Them again," she thought bitterly, feeling the sting of resentment flare up inside her.
Hearing her footsteps, Mark lazily turned his head and smirked.
— Oh, the little princess has graced us with her presence, — he drawled in an exaggeratedly sweet tone, one that came off more like mockery.
— I’m not little! — Emma snapped, her words tinged with the anger bubbling in her chest. — Stop calling me that! Where’s Mom?!
Mark tilted his head slightly, as if trying to decipher her question, but instead of answering, he scoffed, leaned back, and focused his gaze on her with difficulty.
— Mom? — he repeated slowly, as though the word was entirely new to him. Then, after a dramatic pause, his grin widened even more. — She’s… uh… on her royal throne. In the grand hall, where q-q-queens belong!
His voice trembled with suppressed laughter, which soon erupted into a loud, uncontrollable fit. He rocked back slightly in his chair, as if the whole situation was some inside joke only he understood.
— What? — Emma frowned, narrowing her eyes. Her irritation was mounting, fueled by her inability to make sense of what he was saying.
But Mark seemed oblivious to her confusion. He picked up a chip and held it close to his face, studying it intently.
— Ohhh, just look at this! — Mark held the chip up with two fingers, as if it were some rare artifact, and extended it toward Emma. — It’s the face of an alien! See? These are the eyes, and this… maybe it’s a tentacle, or whatever they have instead of a beard.
He rotated the chip at different angles, seemingly trying to find the most "perfect" view.
Emma crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him, her irritation plain as day.
— Come on, tell me you see it too! — Mark turned his head to her, his eyes gleaming with a childlike excitement. — Or am I seeing things again?
He burst into laughter, nearly dropping the chip. Emma rolled her eyes.
— It’s just a potato chip, Mark, — she said sharply, though she struggled to suppress a smile. Her gaze then caught on a book lying on the table.
— What’s that? — she asked, leaning closer for a better look.
Mark seemed to think for a second, though he was probably just distracted by some random thought.
— Huh? Oh, that… a book. A book about… something. Maybe it’s a secret… uh… portal? — He grinned wide and then broke into laughter again.
Emma rolled her eyes but still reached for the book. She picked it up and ran her fingers across the cover, where the stars shimmered faintly under the light.
— Looks old, — she muttered, flipping to a random page.
On the first illustration, there was a fat cat with enormous eyes sitting in a puddle. The caption read: "Silly Meow forgot his umbrella." Emma couldn’t help but snicker.
— What is it? What is it? — Mark asked eagerly, craning his neck to see.
She turned the book toward him, and he immediately burst out laughing, pointing at the cat.
— That’s me when your Mom… when she told me to buy… what did she say? Something about milk! Ha!
Emma looked at him, shaking her head, but continued flipping through the pages. The illustrations were undeniably funny. There was a boy trying to catch a fish but instead snagging his own hat. A clown tangled up in his own balloons. Emma laughed louder with each page, her earlier irritation ebbing away.
Then she turned to another page and froze. It was the jester. The very same jester. His wide grin, absurdly drawn circle-eyes, and comically crooked pose triggered a sudden fit of laughter.
— Mark, look! Is this your buddy? — she exclaimed through giggles, pointing at the picture.
She placed the book on the table to avoid dropping it and bent slightly, laughing so hard tears began to well up in her eyes. Emma’s laughter was so infectious that even her own words seemed funnier as she kept laughing uncontrollably.