The Train Station. Chapter 2

Jingle shut the door tightly and leaned against it, facing Gary and Beach. “What was that?”
“It was that bottle!” Said Beach in a hushed voice. “It. . . Exploded! That's really scary.”
Gary tried to act normal but his face was paler than usual. Jingle thought for a moment.
“It must've had something to do with the pressure inside the bottle. Completely harmless. I think ma said something about it once.”
No matter how harmless the bottle supposedly was, the decision was made to stay inside for now anyway.  
The inside of the house was even hotter and stuffier than the outside. The furniture consisted of two chairs, a greasy stove, and three cabinets filled with assorted plates, bottles, and jars. One of the bottles was overturned and dripping a sticky liquid down the side of the cabinet. The stove was still curling smoke, and the smell of burned corn-cakes, wax candles, and an air of lonesome disarray predominated. Beach picked up a rag and scrubbed at the drip, picking up the bottle and setting it upright. “What were you doing in here, Jingle?”
“I was only making bread,” said Jingle, frowning at the mess. “It's so bothersome. Don't open that, Gary.”
But, Gary had already pulled the stove door open. A great billow of smoke rushed out and he jumped back. “Something's burning!”
“That was my first batch of bread,” explained Jingle disconsolately, “the next one exploded.”
“Don't worry. I'll make the bread.” Beach was already mixing flour and water into a thick paste.  
Gary looked at it hungrily. “So . . .what were you doing to the bread to make it explode?”
“Well, I mixed the flour with the water as usual. . . Only I suppose it wasn't flour at all. It was one of them.” Jingle motioned towards a cabinet filled with multicolored bottles. “Aren't they so interesting?"
Gary took down a glass jar filled with watery purple liquid and stared at it. “Whats in them?” It looked. . . Edible.
“All kinds of stuff,” said Jingle proudly. “That's blue berry jam. Careful, though. Some of them's got chemicals.”
Gary didn't bother to ask what a chemical was, because Jingles ma was very smart—a scientist, some said—and it would be only confusing if Jingle tried to explain. Besides, the way Jingle said it made him think that she didn't really understand it either.
Beach stuck the paste into a pan and thrust the un-greased substance into the smoking stove. “There you are. Should be done in ten minutes!”
“Thanks,” said Jingle, busy trying to pop the lid off the blue berry jam jar, which Gary still held. “Let's eat this while we're waiting for the real stuff.”
Beach was all for this idea, seeing as though they were all very hungry, and joined in the efforts to pry off the lid. It came off with a louder bang than expected, but the three young housekeepers disregarded this and commenced the feast. Five minutes later, Beach announced that the ten minutes were up and opened the little black stove compartment, to find a flat cake of bread that was swiftly declared the best that ever was made. Beach shut it in a cabinet to cool.
“Do you think it's safe to go outside?” Gary asked, still licking the jam-jar.
“I'm not sure,” mused Jingle, peering through the tiny crack between the door and the doorframe, but seeing nothing except for a bright blur. “I can't see anything.”
“Let's go and have a look, then,” said Gary, giving the jar a loving look before setting it back in the cabinet.
“I'm not going back out there,” Beach declared positively, stepping backwards to emphasize her point. “Its dangerous.”
“'Tisn't if nothing else explodes!’ protested Gary, grabbing for the doorhandle. 
Jingle seized it first and held it. “Just a minute, you both. Let me think here.”
Had Ma said anything about that particular bottle and the dangers thereof? She remembered Ma pointing to a blue bottle and a green one and saying something about chemicals, but nothing about the yellow one. Jingle didn't even remember Ma ever using the yellow liquid or even mentioning it.  
“Well, Ma never told me anything about that particular bottle. I'd say it’ll probably be safe, ‘specially since I haven't heard anything else explode.” She paused, looking at Beach’s dubious expression. “I'll go first, cause it's my fault it happened.”
Gary started another protest, wanting to have first look, but stopped, perhaps remembering the potential explosive properties of said bottle. “I'll be next, then.”
Bright sunlight streamed inside as Jingle opened the door, stepping outside cautiously. The pan on the rock had stopped smoking, and the bottle lay on its side with the cork beside it. All was still except for the sounds of the sticky summer afternoon.
“Whew. I think it's good now,” said Jingle, stepping nearer.  
Suddenly she stopped and looked curiously at the rock. She looked again.
“Why, see this! Whatever is the matter with that rock?”


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