The Boy Is Back by Meg Cabot (29)

Hi.

Hello.

So, sorry about last night.

You have nothing to apologize for. It was my fault.

How was it your fault? You said you wanted to keep things professional and I got carried away. Although I think the moonlight had a little something to do with it.

Funny, I was thinking it was the sake.

There was a lot of that, too. In any case, it won’t happen again. Unless of course you want it to.

I think we can easily avoid it by staying away from moonlight and sake. This setting, for instance, does not lend itself to romance. What do you think happened in here? It was completely organized when I left last night.

Oh, yeah, sorry about that. It was my sister, also known as Hurricane Trimble. Apparently Richard wasn’t too happy at finding his newspapers gone when he got back from dinner, so he called her to complain.

She came over and decided to take what she thought she was owed by birthright, which it looks like included several of the fondue pots, an assortment of the monogrammed highball glasses, and quite a bit of the dining room furniture.

How nice. She raided the storage units, too, I see.

Apparently. And the Dumpsters. My sister is nothing if not thorough. I imagine she’ll be coming by later for the chandelier.

It’s good to have things to look forward to. Your sister was always a very independent thinker.

That’s one way of putting it.

So I hear congratulations are in order.

Oh, you heard about the Lyrexica deal?

I don’t know what Lyrexica is. I meant about Shenanigans dropping the charges against your parents.

Oh, right. Yes, that’s good. We owe all that to your mother, I think.

Oh, I don’t know about that. But yes, when she gets fired up about a cause, she’s always been very good at getting other people to champion it, and then organizing a solution.

Like mother, like daughter.

Stop it, you’re making me blush.

I thought we agreed to be professional.

Sorry. But it’s true.

My mom got something out of her little boycott, too. She sold about a million Blessie Sticks to the other protesters.

What’s a Blessie Stick?

It’s—never mind.

Are you going to the fundraiser tonight? She’ll be selling them there, too.

How could I miss the fundraiser to benefit my own parents? Marshall says we have to go, or our image in this town will be forever tarnished.

I can see that you’re smiling, and your parents think it’s funny, too—but how do you really feel about it?

I know you. You must be mortified.

It’s going to get even more mortifying when the press gets hold of the story, and it’s all over *PTI*.

What’s *PTI*?

*Pardon the Interruption*. It’s a sport show on—now YOU never mind.

You know what, it’s fine. It’s kind, what the people of this town are doing for my parents. I don’t remember them being this kind when I lived here.

Well, Bloomville may be a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, but it has its bright spots. One of them is the people who live here.

I would definitely agree with that.

If you’re ever in a jam, they will be there to help you out.

This is so true, it’s making me wonder why I ever left.

You mean besides the fact that your father kicked you out?

Yes. But I’m starting to think I should have had more of a backbone about it, and fought harder to stay. I should have fought harder for a lot of things.

I don’t know about that. If you hadn’t left, you wouldn’t be who you are today.

I’m not sure that would be such a bad thing.

Fishing for compliments, are we?

You caught me.

OK, let me put it another way: If I hadn’t left, maybe YOU wouldn’t have turned out to be who you are today—which is pretty great!

That’s more like it. Speaking of which, I thought today I’d use my greatness to tackle the master bedroom. There are going to be things in there I don’t think you’re going to want to see. So I suggest you stick with the office.

What kind of things?

What kind of things do YOU keep in YOUR bedroom?

My parents do NOT have porn in their bedroom. And neither do I. You’re only implying that to keep me away from you because you’re hot for me and you know you can’t resist my manly form.

Actually, I can easily resist your manly form, and I did not mean porn at all. I meant things like adult diapers. A lot of seniors wear them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it often makes their children embarrassed when they find out. . . .

Jesus Christ! I’ll stay in the office with Dad.

Aw, you wrote Dad.

What?

It’s the first time you’ve called him Dad and not Richard or the Judge. Perhaps you’re beginning to warm up to him again.

I’m warming up to someone, but it isn’t my dad.

Inappropriate. You are banished. Good luck sorting through all that paperwork. It looks like Hurricane Trimble struck in the office, too.

You don’t deserve to have this now because you’re being so unkind, but here, my niece Courtney made this for you.

What are you talking about?

I’m sending it as an attachment. Courtney was very impressed upon meeting you yesterday when Carly brought the girls over to pick up Grandma and Grandpa to take them for dinner—not knowing, of course, that it was all part of an elaborate scheme to deprive Grandpa of one of his great joys in life, his newspaper collection.

Anyway, when Courtney got home, she was apparently inspired to include you in an essay about her family that she was assigned to write. Carly was so amused by it that she scanned it so you could have a copy. I think it’s A+ work, but you can decide for yourself. Enjoy.