The Boy Is Back by Meg Cabot (25)

Where are you?

I’m still in line at the café counter at Bloomville Books, waiting to order those sandwiches you wanted.

There’s a line? There’s never a line at the bookstore.

Well, where else are people going to go grab a quick lunch? We’re supposed to be boycotting Shenanigans, and the sushi from Matsumori’s is a little difficult to eat at your desk or on the run.

Oh, God, I forgot about the boycott. Mom better not be there.

Don’t worry, she’s back at her desk. Rhonda Jenkins has taken over the boycott. I guess she used to be the Stewarts’ housekeeper. She’s hopping mad at Randy.

Good. We need all hands on deck for this. The Dumpsters were just delivered. The PODS are on their way.

How are they taking it?

The Stewarts? Well, Mrs. Stewart flipped out and yelled dramatically, “If this is what our children think of us, fine, they can have everything,” and threw her wedding dress into Dumpster #1.

DAMMIT! I miss all the good stuff!

You really do.

What’s she doing now?

Sobbing on the back porch.

But I didn’t notice any actual tears, and she’s eating Lucky Charms straight out of the box, while petting the orange tabby cat. It’s her favorite.

I think we may have a case of Hanger.

Angry hunger? Oh no! There’s nothing worse.

The sooner she and her husband get some real food into their bellies, the better. Part of their problem is there’s nothing but ice cream in their refrigerator, ceramic cats in the cabinets, and they got rid of the stove. I can’t even fix them a cup of soup.

Seniors are weird. Have you given them their instructions?

Ditch, Donate, Save? Oh, yes, they know. That’s why she threw the wedding gown in the Dumpster. I fished it out later, of course, when she wasn’t looking.

Now I’m having the two of them sticker so Doug will know what goes and what stays.

Of course Judge Stewart has put a Save sticker on every pile of newspapers in the house.

Oh no. What are you going to do?

The usual. I’ll have the sister-in-law come over after school with the grandkids to lure them both out of the house. Then we’ll do a quick load-and-dash to the recycling center.

It’s possible, considering how out of it he is, that by the time they get back, the Judge won’t even notice the newspapers are gone.

Do you know why I love you, besides the fact that you’re my big sister?

Because you’re such an optimist.

I’ve explained that all of the articles from the papers are available on the Internet, and that the silverfish, mice, and raccoon droppings constitute a health hazard.

But the Judge doesn’t believe me. He asked if I was accusing him of having a slovenly home.

Do you want me to drop some wine off along with the sandwiches on my way to the Blumenthals? Because I think you’re going to need it.

Oh, no. I’ll be all right. I like the Judge. I think he’s—oh God.

What?

He’s here.

Who’s where?

Reed. He just walked in. When I told him specifically not to come!

That despicable rake! Want me to call Henry? He could come over and tase him.

He says he wants to help.

With the stickering?

With everything.

Someone’s still got a crush!

I most certainly do not.

I meant him, not you. I don’t think he’d be there if you weren’t.

He sent me a letter. Can you pick up an extra sandwich for him?

Wait. What?

Chicken. He likes chicken.

I meant what letter, not what kind of sandwich.

Email. It was an email. Oh, no, his dad just saw him.

WHAT DID THE LETTER SAY????

His dad is letting him have it.

That’s fine. Don’t tell me anything about the letter.

So what kind of chicken? They’ve got chicken salad, roast chicken breast, fried chicken, chicken and pesto, chicken parm.

It was an apology letter, for the way he behaved that night. You know. And after. And then he asked me out. But only as friends.

As friends! Right. I knew it.

I knew this was going to happen!

I hope you said no.

Of course I did.

Chicken salad.

WHAT?

He likes chicken salad. At least he used to.

His dad is really laying into him. I guess I should intervene.

No, don’t. Reed deserves it.

Chicken salad it is. He’s not getting chips though. When you don’t call my sister for ten years, you don’t get chips, even if you do write an apology email.

OK, gotta go. His mom’s getting into it now. She’s just thrown one of the family photo albums into Dumpster #2 and says she wishes they were all dead.

God, Reed Stewart’s family is so amazing. Who wouldn’t want to marry him, if you could have in-laws like that?

Don’t make fun of the Stewarts. They’re in crisis.

Wait . . . he’s got photos.

I thought the photos were in the Dumpster.

No. He’s got photos of condos in Orlando.

Wait, he actually did something useful for a change? I might die of shock.

The photos are of The Town.

The fastest growing retirement community in America, where the residents can drive golf carts instead of cars?

The Judge should love that.

He does. He’s actually stopped yelling.

So has Mrs. Stewart. They’re looking at the photos on Reed’s phone.

Wow. The prodigal son returneth, and doeth something good.

Maybe I’ll get him chips after all.