sun took over and just blinking made you sweat. He glanced over at his father and rallied for the nerve to ask.
“Dad,” he finally mustered, “do you want to play catch before you leave?”
Nick was texting on his phone and his brow furrowed as it always did when he was being distracted. “Not today, slugger. I don’t want to get all sweaty before I get on the plane.”
Peter tried to shake his head like he understood, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment. Slugger, my butt, Peter thought. He could have been the next Mickey Mantle (though he was 99.9999 percent sure he wasn’t), but his father would have no idea. They hadn’t played catch since his father started the Business. His father probably thought if he had a glove on one hand and a ball in the other, how could he hold his phone? Peter was tired of hearing about the Business. It was the Business that brought him to this new home. It was the Business that changed his Dad. The Business was another staple on several of Peter’s lists.
Once, desperate to play catch, Peter asked Mr. Terry. Mr. Terry immediately said no but agreed after Mr. James persuaded him. Mr. James looked a little younger than Mr. Terry and definitely was in better shape, but Peter was more comfortable with Mr. Terry. He was always smiling and talking loudly, waving his arms and making animated faces. Mr. James once told Peter that Mr. Terry used to be a character actor. When Peter asked what that was, Mr. Terry said it meant he was too fat and ugly to be a star. Then he laughed.
For catch, Peter had to loan Mr. Terry CJ’s mitt. Mr. Terry’s first throw missed horribly, sailing high over Peter’s head and down the street. Mr. James, who Peter had seldom seen smile to that point, laughed and slapped at the arm of the lawn chair he had set up for the occasion. The added dimension of having a spectator excited Peter even though Mr. Terry seemed less than thrilled.
“You come over here and try this,” he shouted at Mr. James. “This is opening old wounds. I’m going to have to see my therapist later.” Peter threw a bullet that hit Mr. Terry square in the chest, freeing the air from his body with an exploding OOOMPH! Mr. James doubled over in his lawn chair, choking with laughter. “There’s a big leather glove on your hand for a reason, Terry. It’s not an accessory,” Mr. James said, wiping tears from his eyes. Mr. Terry ignored the heckling, gently rubbing the center of his chest.
For an hour, they both constantly underthrew and overthrew each other, but not once did Mr. Terry show any sign of aggravation. He actually grew quite serious, concentrating on each throw, the tip of his tongue visible, and rejoicing in lottery-winning style when he threw a catchable ball. They played until the sun sank under the homes and Mr. Terry collapsed on the curb, begging the violet-streaked sky for a mimosa IV.
A cab slowed in front of the house and pulled into the driveway. Nick gathered his belongings and told Abby he’d call once he landed.
“Herb might be here when you get back, Nick, depending on when you get back,” Abby said. She’d purposely held off on this information until this time.
“Uncle Herb is coming over?” Peter asked. That was news to him.
Nick threw his bag over his shoulder. “Well, that’s why we bought this ranch, for Herbie. Right, dear?” The word dear dripped from Nick’s mouth.
“Hurry home,” Abby said, flatly. She went back to kitchen and Peter followed her, waving one last goodbye to his father.
Nick jogged to the cab and threw his bag, then himself, into the backseat. He leaned toward the driver and tapped the top of the driver’s seat. The cab sped off. It was like the classic chase scene in a movie and Nick was hot on the tail, the pursuer. But anyone watching would have no idea what he was chasing.
Uncle Herb
After the cab pulled away, Abby sprinted through her morning cleanup routine, taking minutes to accomplish what normally would take her through lunch. She chose to avoid the everyday distractions that dragged her routine out: television, phone, magazines, children.
She dashed between rooms, dropping dirty coffee mugs into the kitchen sink, picking puzzle pieces off the living room floor, and lugging the laundry basket to the basement. She had energy. She moved purposefully. This was not a common weekday.
Peter took notice but pretended not to, stealing glances at her from the couch as she darted past.
“Peter, after we get Uncle Herb, I have to go out for a bit. I need to take a shower now.”
“Who is staying home with us?” Peter wanted to know. If she said nobody or gave a line saying how he was old enough now to be trusted, that meant he was babysitting CJ. Kids got good money to babysit, and that’s where he wanted to lead the conversation. Plus, these handsomely paid babysitters weren’t watching CJ; there should be some extra combat pay for that.
“Uncle Herb will be here,” she said, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Really?” Peter loved his Uncle dearly, but he was not what you’d describe as the typical babysitter.
Abby stopped what she was doing and placed her hands on her hips. “Really. Problem?”
“No,” Peter said. Unlike CJ, he knew when not to push his mother. The hand-on-the-hip thing was a dead giveaway. The topic of monetary compensation would have to wait.
“Please wake up your sister now. I’m in a hurry,” Abby said.
Peter’s shoulders sagged. He had just given in to his mother, and this was how he was rewarded?
The Worst Things To Do In The Morning—A List by Peter Grady.
1. Wake Up.
2. Wake Up CJ.
A tornado outbreak from the minute she woke, CJ slept on her back, totally still with her hands folded over her chest. Her resting pose always freaked Peter out, as if his little sister was part vampire or something. And she slept hard. You could shake her, and she’d roll a little like a large log, only to return to the original resting spot. She had resisted a set bedtime since she was two, and now that their father was out of town a lot, Abby didn’t have the energy at night to battle and enforce. So she let CJ run and run until she was totally out of gas, then she’d find her curled in some random spot—the middle of the hallway, under the kitchen table—and Abby would carry her to bed.
Peter hovered over her bed. He sighed.
“Wake up, CJ.”
Baby Vampire didn’t respond. Her interwoven fingers sat motionless on her chest.
He stood on the bottom of her mattress and jumped up and down, chanting “Wake up!” but CJ’s body just moved with the waves.
Frustrated, Peter jumped off the bed and headed to the door. “All right, CJ, we’re picking up Uncle Herb. See you later.”
CJ bounced into the air. “Where’s my lasso?”
Peter had CJ buckled into her car seat, eating a granola bar and drinking a juice box, when their mother crashed out of the front door running to the car, buttoning her blouse and pushing her wet hair over her ears. A look of bewilderment crossed her face as she reached the car.
“You
