“On the contrary, I was never bored, because unlike other people, I’m fully capable of finding inventive and exciting ways to amuse myself. Unfortunately, on my current budget and time constraints, none of that is possible,” I say. “Now, since you refuse to help me, I should ring off and try to figure out how to work the bleeding washing machine. I’ve been free-balling it for two days now, and I kind of miss my boxer briefs.”
“All right. Good luck with your domestic chores. Just know that you can count on me for assistance should you choose to be an adult human being rather than our mother’s pet.”
“I won’t say what I’m thinking at the moment, Pierce, because I’m far too much of a gentleman.”
“No, you’re not. You just can’t think of anything clever.”
Bastard. I wish he didn’t know me so well. “Good day, Pierce. Don’t choke on your chia seeds.”
***
“What the hell does permanent press mean?” I mutter, staring at the dials while the pile of dirty clothes tips precariously at my feet, threatening to spill all over the hallway.
I really need to sort this out fast because Milo the man-hater is currently practicing the not-so-subtle art of murdering one of my socks, and I’m pretty sure once he shreds this one, he’ll move onto the rest of them. I originally mistook him for Puddy Tat (who adores yours truly) and attempted to take the sock away in exchange for some scratches behind the ear. Turns out, I’m the one who got scratched—all over my left hand. Then he hissed in my face and tore off down the hall with it. My goal is to get these clothes safely into the wash before he returns for seconds.
What kind of sadist invented these stupid machines? I can’t even find the button that pops open the round hatch on the front. I briefly consider asking Brianna for help but decide against it. When I walked in the house, I saw her sitting at the kitchen table with her books spread in front of her, which means her current pursuit has a good deal more long-term value than mine. A movement down the hall catches my eye, and I look up to see little Isabelle, who is dressed as Wonder Woman, but for some reason with the addition of enormous blue furry gloves.
“Good morning, my young friend.”
“Do you know my name?” she asks, squinting her eyes at me.
“Of course I do. Your name is Isabelle Lewis.”
Shaking her head vigorously, she shouts, “I’m Wonder Woman!”
She charges in my direction and skids to a stop just short of my dirty clothes.
“Yes, well, obviously I know that’s yourtrueidentity. I didn’t want to say it out loud in case Lex Luthor happened to be listening.”
“Him isn’t here, silly. Superman killeded him.”
“Right. How did I forget?” I turn back to the washing machine, tapping my finger on my cheekbone while I try to discern the proper way to open the door. I start randomly turning the dials and pushing buttons, butnada.
“What are you doing?” Isabelle asks, giving me a sceptical look.
“It’s a secret, but I suppose if I don’t tell you, you’ll use your lasso of truth on me.”
She nods excitedly at the thought.
I glance from side to side as though making sure no one else will hear me, then lean down and whisper, “Laundry.”
Her face falls at my boring, grown-up response.I know the feeling, kid.
“Say, you don’t happen to know which one of these buttons opens the hatch, do you?”
“Hatch?”
“The round thing there. The hatch.”
“That’s a door, silly.” Isabelle wrinkles her nose at me with an expression I can only describe as disgust. “Here,” she says, yanking it open.
“Well, that was deceptively simple,” I say, feeling more than a little bit foolish. “Thank you, Wonder Woman.”
I pick up as much of the clothes as I can and start shoving them unceremoniously into the machine.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Isabelle says, shaking her head. She waves me away, sticks her entire torso into the machine, and emerges with my clothing. “You gotta sort them first.”
I watch as she deftly sorts the clothes into three piles. Things that are white or very light, dark clothing, and colourful things.
