“By the way, you’re squinting,” she told me. “That’s a sign that you might need glasses. You’re straining your eyes.”
I squinted harder at her, causing her to giggle, and said, “I sure as fuck don’t need glasses.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and slid one of the lemonade bottles my way. “The news is boring. Even Willow has her eyes glued to the news. FYI, that’s a figure of speech.”
“Good to know.” I withheld my smile and dutifully uncapped the bottle. “It’s great to follow the news, though. It’s the first assignment I give my seniors every semester. They have to watch the news a few times a week or read a minimum of four articles about current events.”
Pipsqueak pretended to snore.
“Tsk.”
“Of course you think the news is exciting. You’re a teacher.”
It was hardly a rule among teachers in general, but if you had a master’s in social studies, current events were kind of a big deal. Especially these times we lived in. This year and the next were going to be interesting.
I looked forward to discussing it with Darius when he came home in October. He shared my cynical view on the world, but unlike me, who played around with a modest stock portfolio, he was the type of man who hid cash in the mattress.
“Try the lemonade,” Pipsqueak urged.
Right. The lemonade. I took a swig and felt an explosion of exotic flavors in my mouth. Pineapple, lime—I dug the lime a lot—and…orange. “It’s good,” I said. “Very tart.”
She narrowed her eyes and chewed on the inside of her cheek.
I narrowed my eyes right back.
“I’m reading you,” she said.
“I noticed,” I replied. “Your analytical mind never rests, does it?”
She flashed a sheepish smirk at that. “It’s not my fault. Humans only share a fraction of what they really think.”
She wasn’t wrong, but she could take me at my word.
“If I say something is good, I mean it.”
“I believe you, but was it followed by…but I liked this-and-such even more?”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Nope. I get where you’re coming from, but I’m pretty simple. This one was good.” I took another swig and nodded. “Was it your best? No, but I’m enjoying it. Just like I enjoy a grilled hot dog sometimes, even though a good steak will always be better.”
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “So, this was the hot dog of lemonades.”
“You could say that. And sometimes, that’s what I want.” I paused and studied her briefly, wondering if making lemonade was her current obsession. Last year, it had been Popsicles. “Is the lemonade thing your idea, or is it how your aunt is getting through her divorce?”
Pipsqueak tipped her hand, weighing the response. “A bit of both, maybe? What I really want to do is experiment with sweets, but I have to save up for a chocolate tempering machine. Then I’m gonna make truffles.”
I had no idea what a chocolate…tempering machine did, but I was sure she’d ace it.
“Do you like chocolate?” she asked.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m not much for swee—”
“Whoa. Dude. That was a rhetorical question.” She suddenly looked queasy and adorably upset. “How can you not—I m-mean, everybody loves—holy crap.” Before I knew it, she shot up from her seat. “I have to process this, Mister. Bye.”
I blinked and watched her leave.
Ethan barked out a laugh and slowed down from his sprint on the treadmill.
“She hasn’t stopped by since then,” I went on, out of breath, and eyed the timer on my own treadmill. The display showed I had eleven minutes to go. “Should I be worried?”
I wasn’t seriously concerned, but I’d clearly offended Pipsqueak somehow if she hadn’t visited in almost a week.
I’d texted her once, to which she’d responded by saying she was still processing the fact that I didn’t have a sweet tooth.
“She’ll get over it,” Ethan chuckled and chugged some water. “I remember she looked at me like I’d sworn allegiance to her mortal enemy when I said I didn’t see the big deal with cupcakes.”
“That’s exactly what she looked like!” I exclaimed.
Ethan grinned and used a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. “She’s evidently adopted you as a new brother, so you have two options. You can grovel and beg to be her guinea pig once she starts creating candy…” He must’ve seen the look on my face. I didn’t fucking beg. And I didn’t grovel to a damn teenager. Ethan smirked. “Or you can do what I do. Being her brother comes with a privilege. You can fuck with her. Hunker down and stand your ground—send her a massacred cupcake or something.” Then he backtracked. “Maybe not a cupcake, on second thought. She’ll think I sent it.”
I let out a labored laugh and wiped my face with the neckline of my tee. I wasn’t going to send her anything like that, partly because I kind of liked the idea of her seeing me as a brother. It meant I was part of something to cherish.
As I slowed down my jog a bit, I swiped up my phone from one of the cupholders, and I sent Pipsqueak a message.
While we’re on the subject, cupcakes, cake, cookies, and ice cream are overrated too.
“This okay?” I showed Ethan the screen.
He read it and held up his fist for me to bump. “Brother. Welcome to the family.”
Not a bad day. Not a bad day at all.
I bumped his fist, pressed send, and increased my pace the last few minutes.
After another two days of silence, Pipsqueak felt the need to give me a piece of her mind.
At five thirty in the morning, I woke up to her knocking incessantly on my patio door.
I let her in and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes on my way to the kitchen.
I needed coffee for this.
“You know that text was a declaration of war, right? Whoa, you still don’t have furniture?”
Not down here. I’d moved my bed upstairs and now even had a bed frame, along with a flat-screen and two nightstands. I’d also prepared the second room as my study, but the downstairs remained empty. I wasn’t in any rush. But at least I’d finished the renovations, except for the half bath down here. It needed a new counter and sink, and the tiles would be removed entirely. There was no shower in there; tiles were redundant.
I yawned and started the coffeemaker.
Pipsqueak stayed in the doorway and stewed. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
I squinted and tightened the drawstrings of my sweats. “I’m not fond of jam either. Nutella is nothing but sugary paste that gets stuck on the roof of your mouth. Don’t get me started on marshmallows.”
She glared. “Honestly, Avery. I…” She huffed and went straight to my fridge, and she peered inside with evident horror. There wasn’t much to look at. Other than some basic condiments in the door, I had butter, a six-pack of Coke, a rack of ribs I thought I’d eat this weekend, and a jar of pickles.
I’d have laughed at her expression if I weren’t so tired. I’d stayed up till two to work on my plans for the AP class I was teaching this fall.