Chapter 7

“Damn it!”

Those characters would have chosen a different four-letter curse word. Grover Grunkwas a cartoon for adults.

“M’row.”

Del hit his head on the closet shelf when he shot up from the floor.

Ha ha! My Cheshire cat grin rivaled the famous one from Alice in Wonderland.

“Shoo!”

As if.

I found black socks with light blue boxer shorts a total turnoff, even with the small but noticeable biceps up top and leg muscles dusted in orange fur below the waist. Orange fur I like.

“Too bad this isn’t a combination lock,” Del said looking at me. “Grandmother probably would have used your birthday or the day she got you.”

Like you know either one of those. Up close now, I decided Del Swann resembled a young Mr. Burns from The Simpsons a lot morethan he did pig farmer Grover Grunk from his own show or Harry Potter.

“Either twelve, fourteen, twelve…”

So, he did know. I was a Christmas cat.

“Or mid-September, when you were born.” We met eye to eye. “You don’t really have to shoo.”