Read Online The Next Thing on My List by Jill Smolinski - Free Book Online
Authors: Jill Smolinski
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lumbered on without an apology. Chase-who stands six feet two and at the time probably weighed 120 pounds dripping wet-came running over. He tipped his chin in the lunk’ s direction and said, ‘ You want me to kick his ass?’ We gaped at him for a moment, stunned, and he said, ‘ I’ m kidding. The guy’ d smash me like a bug.’ Susan was instantly smitten, and I’ m pleased to report that Chase has since filled out nicely.
They live a few miles from me in Brentwood, in a three-bedroom ranch-style house that they bought for a song at an auction and that-thanks to California’ s ridiculous real estate market-was recently appraised at more than a million dollars. I call it the palace even though it’ s only about 1,600 square feet.
I arrived at the palace at seven o’ clock. Susan had already fed and bathed C.J. and Joey and dressed them in their pajamas. ‘ Hey, beasts!’ I called to them in the living room, where they played with Legos.
C.J. and Joey-identical twins-were dark and gangly like their father. The only way I could tell them apart is by the scar Joey got when he fell off a table as a toddler. Joey squeaked an excited, ‘ What’ s that?’ when he noticed I held a big box, hopeful it was a treat of some kind. He and his brother went back to their Legos when I showed them it was only a bunch of Marissa’ s yearbooks.
‘ I figured tonight might be a good time to look through them,’ I explained to Susan as she and Chase tossed on their coats.
‘ Good luck& hope you find what you’ re looking for. And thanks again for doing this,’ Susan said. ‘ We won’ t be long.’
‘ No later than ten,’ Chase added. ‘ I plan to be home in time to get my Valentine’ s Day booty.’
Susan grinned at him. ‘ Then that chore is out of the way until Easter.’
‘ Ah, I’ ll wear you down before that. Besides’ -he grabbed his keys and pulled on the door-’ you’ re forgetting about Presidents’ Day.’
‘ Shut up with your boasting about your sex life!’ I cried as they waved good-bye to me and the boys.
Once they left, I warmed up pizza for myself and proceeded to do what I always did when watching C.J. and Joey: let them run wild. Allowed them to pull out toys and games and balls and never made them put the old toy away before bringing out something new. Eat whatever they wanted. It was okay, the way I figured it, since I didn’ t baby-sit that often. It has occurred to me that that may be the reason I don’ t baby-sit that often.
The only time I scolded them at all the entire evening was when I noticed they’ d left the door open to the cage of their guinea pig, Aunt June, named after yours truly. (Susan said it was proof of the boys’ affection for me; I suspect there may have been prompting on her part.)
‘ We always keep it open,’ C.J. explained when I showed him the unhooked latch.
‘ Doesn’ t she escape?’
‘ Nope.’
Joey then grabbed a sprig of parsley from the refrigerator to demonstrate. Even when he held the treat just outside her reach, she merely leaned on the base of the door and squealed. He tossed the parsley into the cage. ‘ We asked for a dog.’
It was a little after nine o’ clock when the boys finally passed out on the living room floor. I had to step over C.J., curled up at my feet, to get the box filled with yearbooks.
Wrenching as it was, I made myself thumb through every one in search of Buddy Fitch. But there wasn’ t a trace of him. No one named Fitch at all.
So he wasn’ t a high school classmate. Although it meant that the search continued, I felt a degree of relief. I’ d been weaned on teen movies where the basic principle is survival of the fittest, so I feared the worst. I’ d concocted all sorts of scenarios regarding who Buddy Fitch might be. Most involved him starring as a wealthy, popular jock-think Steff, the head ‘ richie’ in Pretty in Pink-a boy who would have gotten his jollies from abusing
They live a few miles from me in Brentwood, in a three-bedroom ranch-style house that they bought for a song at an auction and that-thanks to California’ s ridiculous real estate market-was recently appraised at more than a million dollars. I call it the palace even though it’ s only about 1,600 square feet.
I arrived at the palace at seven o’ clock. Susan had already fed and bathed C.J. and Joey and dressed them in their pajamas. ‘ Hey, beasts!’ I called to them in the living room, where they played with Legos.
C.J. and Joey-identical twins-were dark and gangly like their father. The only way I could tell them apart is by the scar Joey got when he fell off a table as a toddler. Joey squeaked an excited, ‘ What’ s that?’ when he noticed I held a big box, hopeful it was a treat of some kind. He and his brother went back to their Legos when I showed them it was only a bunch of Marissa’ s yearbooks.
‘ I figured tonight might be a good time to look through them,’ I explained to Susan as she and Chase tossed on their coats.
‘ Good luck& hope you find what you’ re looking for. And thanks again for doing this,’ Susan said. ‘ We won’ t be long.’
‘ No later than ten,’ Chase added. ‘ I plan to be home in time to get my Valentine’ s Day booty.’
Susan grinned at him. ‘ Then that chore is out of the way until Easter.’
‘ Ah, I’ ll wear you down before that. Besides’ -he grabbed his keys and pulled on the door-’ you’ re forgetting about Presidents’ Day.’
‘ Shut up with your boasting about your sex life!’ I cried as they waved good-bye to me and the boys.
Once they left, I warmed up pizza for myself and proceeded to do what I always did when watching C.J. and Joey: let them run wild. Allowed them to pull out toys and games and balls and never made them put the old toy away before bringing out something new. Eat whatever they wanted. It was okay, the way I figured it, since I didn’ t baby-sit that often. It has occurred to me that that may be the reason I don’ t baby-sit that often.
The only time I scolded them at all the entire evening was when I noticed they’ d left the door open to the cage of their guinea pig, Aunt June, named after yours truly. (Susan said it was proof of the boys’ affection for me; I suspect there may have been prompting on her part.)
‘ We always keep it open,’ C.J. explained when I showed him the unhooked latch.
‘ Doesn’ t she escape?’
‘ Nope.’
Joey then grabbed a sprig of parsley from the refrigerator to demonstrate. Even when he held the treat just outside her reach, she merely leaned on the base of the door and squealed. He tossed the parsley into the cage. ‘ We asked for a dog.’
It was a little after nine o’ clock when the boys finally passed out on the living room floor. I had to step over C.J., curled up at my feet, to get the box filled with yearbooks.
Wrenching as it was, I made myself thumb through every one in search of Buddy Fitch. But there wasn’ t a trace of him. No one named Fitch at all.
So he wasn’ t a high school classmate. Although it meant that the search continued, I felt a degree of relief. I’ d been weaned on teen movies where the basic principle is survival of the fittest, so I feared the worst. I’ d concocted all sorts of scenarios regarding who Buddy Fitch might be. Most involved him starring as a wealthy, popular jock-think Steff, the head ‘ richie’ in Pretty in Pink-a boy who would have gotten his jollies from abusing
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