“You don’t have to be a fly,” Rachel said. “Vivian’s going to record the whole thing.”
“Whew, I can’t wait!”
“Oh,” I said, pausing to bat my eyelashes dramatically. “Parker will be the first dude admitted to the Mom Scouts.”
“We’re letting guys in? We may need to vote on this,” Abi said.
“Wait a minute,” I said, tapping my chin. “I thought you said this wasmyproject. So, I’ll just induct ol’ Parker and earn my Sewing Badge.”
“More like a Sewing Hack Badge,” Abi said under her breath.
I opened my mouth to respond, but Rachel waved me on. “You’d better get started or you’ll be at it all night.”
I conceded her point with a nod and headed back in the direction of my house, humming “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.” Few things made me happier than the opportunity to be a fairy godmother—even if it was only a half-assed one.
Chapter 2
It was completely dark by the time I rang my new neighbor’s doorbell. I had my as-of-yet unused sewing kit, my iron, and a roll of hem tape in hand. All the things I needed to record were in my tote bag.
I hope the man has an ironing board.
“Come on in,” Parker said as he opened the door.
Somewhere upstairs another door slammed.
“Not a fan of my idea?” I asked.
“She’s afraid that it won’t look good if it’s not sewn, but she also doesn’t have any other ideas and can’t turn back time to give me this important information two days ago.”
I followed him past blank beige walls. Stacks of boxes lined the dining room—and there, blessedly, was an ironing board. “Well, if you’ll have her put it on, then I’ll see where the hem needs to go. We’ll do our absolute best not to embarrass her.”
“Good luck with that. She just turned thirteen. Everything embarrasses her.” Parker took the steps two at a time, and I wandered into the living room. The room sat mostly empty except for a brown leather couch too big for the space. I inhaled the new leather smell and smiled. The brown couch practically shouted,I changed houses, and I’m going to have the couch that I want to have.
What was it with men and leather couches?
Beyond the living room sat a familiar kitchen. I’d had all those same builder-grade appliances but had replaced them five years ago inmy kitchen remodel. How the appliances in this house had survived this long, I’d never know. My version of that oven, especially, had given me fits.
“I’ll just not go to school,” a young girl’s voice said.
“No, you’re going to school.”
“Okay, then. I’ll skip the concert and make a bad grade.”
“You want to fail band? That’s ridiculous.”
“I just got here. Why are they requiring me to participate in this concert? Besides, I’m better at swim team!”
“Young lady, you don’t have to ask why, but you do need to remember that we finish what we start in this family. All you have to do is put on that dress and come downstairs so we can hem it. Then you will go to school and you will go to the concert, or I will take your phone. As it is, I’m going to hang on to it—”
“No!”
“—until we get this taken care of, because I’ve had enough of your sassing.”
“Daddy, please!”
“You know what to do.”
As his footsteps hit the stairs, I quickly averted my gaze to the lone decoration in the room, a picture above the fireplace. It was an oil painting of an old green house. What was the significance of that house?
