“Only three. I’m not sure he’s ever imbibed before. Turns out, he’s a sad drunk who likes to sing.” Griffith shakes his head with a rueful smile.
I watch Bo clutch a mic while his other hand cradles an empty glass with a tiny beach umbrella skittering around the edge.
“Why’d you give him a microphone?”
Seems like a bad idea to offer anyone who isn’t a paid performer a way to amplify their voice.
“I thought the machine was broken.” Griffith waves toward a dented speaker. “But Bo sat over there for a while, tinkering with it, and next thing I know, he’s onstage, thinking he’s part ofMoulin Rouge.”
“Roooooooxxxxannnnnnne!”
Damn the Dark One’s plans, is Georgiana his Roxanne in this scenario?
I need to get him down before he outs whatever kind of relationship he had with the Of the Wing council member.
“Okay. I’ll get him. No more margaritas.” I jab Griffith’s chest with my finger for emphasis, then push my way through the crowd of spectators, who seem to be a combination of amused and horrified.
“Bo!” I call out when I get closer.
But his eyes stay closed as he sloppily sings out a verse about sharing with another boy.
My lips twist in a grimace, and I really wish I had shoved some cheese in my mouth before I left because, now, I’m hungry, along with baffled.
How am I going to get him off that stage?
“Bo!” I shout again, this time right in front of him.
He blinks glassy eyes down at me, and he lets out a huge, soul-weary sigh.
Then he says, “ROOOOXXXANNNE!”
Enough is enough. I scramble up onto the stage and grab his arm, trying to tug him down.
But he doesn’t budge. The guy is pure muscle, and I’m only as strong as it takes to carry a stack of books.
“Come on, Bo.” I try to reason with him. “It’s not karaoke night.”
What kind of sad, destructive force have I let loose on the innocent townspeople of Folk Haven?
“Sing it with me!” Bo hollers, ignoring my plea, then sloppily makes his way through the same verse he just sang.
“Bo, comeon.”
I try to take the microphone from him, but he simply holds it above my head and shouts, “Roxanne,” into it.
The thing about me is, I like to be in control. Probably an issue left over from being raised by parents who literally drained my power on a regular basis. But I know that being bossy can easily earn me the label of ‘bitch witch’ so I do my best to keep my commands of others reasonable and delivered in a neutral tone.
But the times I can’t suppress the bitch witch?
When I’m frustrated.
And hungry.
And tired.
Right now, I’m all three.
I cross my arms over my chest and hit the monster with my scathing—I’m disappointed in you glare—and let the bossy rampage begin.
