Chapter 12

“Hotcha,” someone shouts. It’s Sparky, her slingshot in one hand and her cell phone in the other, capturing it all for posterity. Uncle Tom has suddenly realized he’s outside in a dress and heels. He flings the boa over one shoulder and strides off majestically. Sparky records it and sends it out over the airwaves, like she already has the video of me. Little brat. Goth Girl is watching silently from her porch, maybe afraid to be seen to care, or more likely, afraid to get her purple hair wet.

Speaking of posterior…as everyone is leaving, Michael says, “We want you to be our best man at our wedding.” My hot fireman says with a wink, “Well, that was more fun than a cat stuck in a tree,” and Mr. Marshall makes a face and says, “I hate kids,” and walks off with Miss Mack. There goes the idea that he likes me. My fifteen minutes of fame are, apparently, over.

Hurrah. I’m famous. All I want to do is go in the house and call Jamison on the phone, and cry.