And that was when a familiar truck rolled to a stop on the road.The passenger window buzzed down, and Bobby said, “You guys okay?”
“All good,” I said.
“Flat tire?”
“Yeah.No big deal.”
“Need some help?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Fox beat me to it: “Why?Because we’re not as butch as you?”
“No—”
“Because we’re not as strong as you?Because compared to you, Dash’s arms are as thin and frail as those of a mummy?Not a pharaoh, but maybe some lesser pharaoh’s forgotten concubine?”
“I mean,” I said, “they’re notthatthin.Also, weirdly specific mummy.”
“I didn’t say any of that,” Bobby said.
“We’re fine, Robert,” Fox announced.“We’re smart, competent, fully functioning adults.We can handle this all on our own.”
“I know,” Bobby said.But his eyes sought me out.
I flexed and did my manliest grunt.
Laughing, Bobby said, “I’ll see you at home.”As he buzzed up the window, he added, “Drive safe.”
Fox watched him go, hands on their hips.And then, once Bobby was out of sight, they turned and held up their hand, and I slapped them five.
2
Lightning flashed out over the ocean, and a few seconds later, thunder rattled the windowpanes.
“Check the weather,” my mom said from where she stood peering out at the storm.Without looking, she waved a hand at me and said, “Dashiell.”
I wasn’t exactly worried about the storm.Bobby was out in the rain, sure, but he was driving his dad to his hotel, and Bobby wouldn’t do anything like that if he thought there was something to worry about.Besides, the billiard room was warm.My dad had built a fire, and the flicker of light and heat was pleasantly lulling.Plus, I was deep into an article onCrime Cats—this one was about a tuxedo cat who scared himself while stalking a mop—so I mumbled,“Uh, yep, still says fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow.”
Someone snapped her fingers.Vigorously.
When I looked up from my phone, my mom was glaring at me.“Do nothumorme.Check.the.weather.”
I sighed.I closedCrime Cats.(Yes, there’s a dedicated app.Yes, it’s worth every penny.) I opened the weather app and refreshed.Then I turned the screen to show her.“Still says fifty percent chance of rain.”
“We need to order more pavilions,” my mom said to my dad.
“Mm-hmm,” my dad said as he moved logs around, rebuilding the fire for what had to be the fourth or fifth time.(Keme was perched next to him, “helping,” which just goes to show that fire is one of the primal things that most boys are drawn to like, uh, a moth to the flame.) (Yes, I’m a writer, thank you very much.)
“We don’t need to order more pavilions,” I said.“And anyway, wecan’torder more pavilions.It’s eight o’clock at night.The wedding is tomorrow.If it rains, it rains.We’ll figure it out.”
“This is an unexpectedly laissez-faire attitude,” my mom said, “from the same young man who nearly put himself into hysterics when he found out the Death by Chocolate cake would only serve sixteen.”
I chose not to rise to the bait.(Mostly because there was also avideoof the tuxedo cat trying to get the mop, and I was on my third re-watch.)
“We’ll have to improvise,” my mom said.“Johnny, we need to run to the store.”
“What store?”I said.“Everywhere is closed by now.”
“Somewhere will be open,” my mom said.
