But beneath all that, there’s one clear spot in the room: a round patch of carpet where nothing has been stored, nothing has been touched.
I’m standing in it. And so is Trent the Flooder.
Another little zap skates down my middle.
The speakers crackle to life.
“A good ol’ Kiwi classics,” Grandpa announces.
Tiki Taane, ‘Always On My Mind’.
Grandpa, delighted, points to the electric guitar in the corner. It’s dusty, neglected. A relic from a younger life.
Trent picks it up without hesitation, and he pretends to play it as he sings along.
So much for cleaning.
His voice is warm, pulling each lyric into something rich and weighty. And I shouldn’t be feeling it. Like a tug from my middle into his orbit.
He sings, eyes on me half the time. Maybe more than that.
But who is always on his mind?
I can’t . . .
I glance away. Look anywhere but at him.
He falters. Misses a beat for the first time all song.
He pivots, turning his attention to Grandpa instead, and finishes with exaggerated enthusiasm. Like that little misstep never happened.
Grandpa, completely unfazed, gestures to the guitar. “Used within the year. That means we keep it.”
I scoff. “Like I’d let him throw that away. Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’ve got your back.”
I pause, pick up a typewriter, and grin. “Except for a few things that’ll be great for donating.”
“Does no one have any respect for history anymore?” Grandpa grumbles.
“Sure,” I say. “I respect you.”
Grandpa grabs his walking stick, and I hide behind Trent, peering out from behind his sleeve. The stick whips out, but Trent blocks it. “Leave Ika, he said it as it is. You’re history.”
“Why you little?—”
I yank Trent back with me, laughing so hard I don’t see the pile of clothes until it’s too late.
I topple backwards, throwing my arm out to break my fall.
Whack.
My hand slams into something solid.
An ancient tin of Wattie’s spaghetti.
Ow.
I pick up the very old can, turning it in my hands. The label is curling at the edges, and if there’s an expiry date, it’s long faded. “Really, Grandpa?”
