Bubbles Reboots by Sarah Strohmeyer

Author:Sarah Strohmeyer [Strohmeyer, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Cozy Mystery
Amazon: B07D249R28
Publisher: Author
Published: 2018-06-25T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

“Holy Mary Mother of God, what the hey ho is he doing here?” Mama poked him with the musket muzzle. G responded with a snort.

G – for “God or genius, depending” – was knocked out on Jane’s ironic SpongeBob sheets from high school. A lock of his purple-tipped hair lay over his cheeks like a sleeping mask. His skinny arms hugged her old green Ugly doll, Bobo. The guy hadn’t even thought to take off his Converse high-tops, though the laces, per usual, were untied. The room reeked of Axe body spray and boy stink.

I retrieved a Mickey Mouse key chain on the nightstand.

“Ahaha!” I flicked our house key, which was easy to identify because it was red, white and blue, from Almart’s “All-American” hardware section despite being made in China. “That’s how he got in. Genevieve was right; we should have changed the locks after they broke up.”

“Should we let him sleep?”

“Hell, no.” I gave his nose ring a tug.

He rolled over, clutching his face. “Ow! That’s attached.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.” He was still moaning. “Is there any blood?”

“No, you wuss,” Mama said.

There was a stomp, stomp, stomp up the stairs followed by Genevieve’s hulking frame in the doorway. “What’s this about, Butch? You break in and eat all our Armageddon food and then help yourself to one of our beds. Gimme that musket, Lulu.”

My mother wisely held it out of her reach.

At the sight of Genevieve, G scooched up and hugged his knobby knees. Those two had a history. An unpleasant history involving a certain baby named Waldo.

“I’m sorry. I was freaking hungry and had no place to crash seeing as how I lost my job and got kicked out of my apartment for nonpayment. Spent the last two nights living out of my car. Then I remembered Jane’s key.”

My hardened core melted a bit. It was true G had no home to call his own. His own father, a right bastard if there ever was one, did not ascribe to my mother’s philosophy that parenting is a lifetime burden one must hold over the heads of one’s children while smothering them with mashed potatoes.

“We should go easy on him,” I said. “G. Go downstairs and clean up the mess you made. I’m going to take a shower and I suggest you then do the same. We’ll talk about this after you’ve had a decent meal.”

“Meal?” At the mention of her happy word, Mama piped right up. “You’re right. He needs some home cooking, not that salad stuff. Of course, I can’t be expected to diet if I’m wupping up a Sunday supper.”

“It’s not prudent,” Genevieve agreed. “You’ve got to taste what you’re cooking so’s we don’t die.”

Mama clasped her paste pearls. “It’s the sacrifice I make for others.”

An hour later, a pork shoulder was in the Crock-Pot, potatoes were peeled and Mama was coring apples for a pie. Crisp, fresh beans from the garden were on the counter waiting to be boiled into limp brown vegetables devoid of any nutritional value, as nature intended.

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