minutes. A personâs memory is funny that wayâever notice?
âWell, maybe Zook is a special cat,â says Riya.
âHe sure is,â I say.
We say good-bye at Telegraph and 49th, and Iâm really not sure if we just had a discussion or some sort of argument. Riya and Kiran and I always have little arguments that blow over without even talking about them again. I guess thatâs what makes us such good friends.
Fred and I walk by Bank of the West and check it out. No problems there. We donât walk past the Villainâs house, because Iâve seen much too much of him lately. There were two more just-going-out-for-coffees this week.
But, drat, here he is anyway! He zooms over to the curb on his motorcycle and turns into the driveway of our apartment building, right in front of us.
Freddy yells, âDYLAN!â
Major, major caps.
âWould you like to help me wash the bike?â the Villain asks. His silver earring glints in the sunlight.
I shake my head no. Then I narrow my eyes, like that cop on TV. âIâve got to go to work at OâLearyâs now. So does Freddy.â
âWork!â says the Villain, flashing one of his white, toothy smiles. Iâm thinking he must spend a fortune on teeth-whiteners. âDo they pay you well?â he asks.
Then Freddy (oh, Freddy!) pipes up. âYes, they do! We dance and the people on the street give us lots and lots of money.â
The Villain gives me a funny look, but I make a face as if I donât understand what Freddyâs talking about.
âLetâs go, Freddy,â I say.
âI donât want to,â says Freddy. âI want to help wash the bike.â
The Villain lifts Freddy and hugs him. My brother, looking like heâs going to faint with happiness, leans against the Villain, and before I can say anything else, theyâre gliding down the driveway to get the hose from the back alley. Our special alley. The Villainâs acting as if he lives with us, usingour buildingâs hose. Doesnât he have his own hose at his own house?
I go to work dancing, and even earn a few dollars from some people strolling by.
Iâve noticed something interesting about dancing: Bobbing up and down shakes up your brain cells, making some of them change places or flip upside down. Well, thatâs not what really happens, but it sure feels like it. I get excellent ideas for stories while Iâm dancing outside OâLearyâs, and thatâs also how I came up with my idea for the Family Straw.
Today, as I dance, Iâm thinking I should suggest to Mr. Fry that he ask my mother for tea, not as a husband figure, but as a friend, because sheâs so lonely. It wouldnât hurt for them to get to know each other. They both enjoy mystery novels and movies, and the right mousse could certainly tame his cowlick, if my mom has a problem with that. Mr. Fry is shy and quiet, not loud and funny like my dad. So maybe Mr. Fry isnât my motherâs type. But I never in a million years thought her type was a cat-shooter like the Villain.
I hope Zook is discharged soon, so the truth about the Villainâs past (and Zookâs) can come out!
return my costume to OâLearyâs and go home. My mom is already busy at the stove. âFreddyâs in the back of the building withââ I start to say.
âI know, sweetie,â she says. âI got a text from Dylan.â
A text from Dylan. How long has the texting been going on? I go into my room and flop down on my bed to do some worrying.
My mom is the fastest, most accurate text-messager in the world. Itâs this talent she has, she says, with no known benefit to humanity. Hereâs the thing: My dad and mom knew each other for years and years before they got hitched. But if two people are texting all day long, they could getfriendly pretty quickly, even if theyâre not out together drinking coffee.
The
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