“They were promised that you’d feed them.” Crawford smirks and holds up my wallet that he’s pickpocketed. “I’ll just order the pizza. How’s that?”
“Fitz!” My dozens of little brothers stream into the penthouse when Crawford swings the front door open. Greg, one of my older half brothers, Faulkner, and Hawthorne herd them inside.
“My babies!” I squeal. “Who’s your favorite brother?” I scoop up the triplets, the smallest of the kids, squeezing them to me.
“And my actual baby.” I pluck my baby niece from Greg’s arms. “She likes me better than you.”
“You wish.”
“She recognizes quality when she sees it.” But I let Greg take his daughter back.
“All right, boys, grab a backpack. You can pick whatever you want,” I tell them loudly as Hawthorne and Greg, my much older half brother, shoo the stragglers into my penthouse.
I whistle at the teenage boys. “Perk up.”
“I had to babysit.” Isaac’s mad.
“And you can have a nice pen for your pain and suffering.” I display the pen tray with a flourish. “That’s a fifty-thousand-dollar pen. Good choice.”
“Why are you spending that much money on a pen?” Crawford scowls, matching Isaac’s expression exactly.
“I need that pen.” Greg snatches it from Isaac.
“Hey!”
“Girls.” I hurry over to my sisters. “This is very nice stationery, handmade. Appreciate the fine quality.”
Greg stuffs bundles of paper in their little backpacks. I grimace.
“Look on the bright side—you can buy more.” Crawford drapes an arm around my shoulders.
“Toys!” several of the younger kids cry as they wander deeper into the storage wing.
“You’re here for school supplies,” Greg barks.
“Aw, let them have some toys.” I follow them. “What do you guys like? GI Joe? Ooh, I have Ninja Turtles. Here’s a bunch of Avengers stuff.”
“Did you buy out Disneyland for all of this?” Greg scowls.
“Batman is Warner Brothers.”
“Why don’t we get some books instead of filling up with toys?” Greg herds them to my second library.
“I have all the Baby-Sitters Club books,” I say.
“I don’t want to babysit anyone,” one of the girls scoffs.
“Me neither. I read it for the drama between the parents,” I tell her.
“You know, it is healing to my inner child,” I tell Crawford, “to just be able to give my younger siblings whatever they want. I’m feeling more saintlike already.Whoa—okay, not that. Don’t touch that.” I grab the vintage typewriter out of my six-year-old sister’s hands and carry it out to hide it in my study.
“How do you have so much stuff?” one of my sisters asks in wonder.
“Great question,” Crawford tells her, bending down to her level. “It’s called having a mental illness.”
“A crazy person wouldn’t have a candy room!” One of my tiny brothers giggles.
“A candy room?” my sisters squeal.
