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Washington; Tina asked her to introduce you to interesting people.”
    His friendly green eyes got big. “George Washington’s mother, hi!”
    â€œYou know who this is?” How was that possible? She didn’t have a show on cable and wasn’t on social media, two vehicles that let Marc instantly recognize almost any celebrity in the world.
    â€œAnd it’s Mary Ball, Betsy. Jeesh. Get with the program.” To her: “There’s a monument
and
a hospital named after you. It’s so nice to meet you!”
    She cleared her throat and—whoa. Was that a blush on her wrinkly cheeks? “Foolish aggrandizing. And the pleasure is mine, Dr. Spangler. I thank you for not holding my son’s crimes against me.”
    â€œCrimes? Right, right, you were a loyalist . . . okay, back then, yeah. But don’t you see? You made him the man he is! Was. Where do you think he got that whole ‘lead by example’ thing? From you! Why do you think he called out Britain for their dick moves with the Stamp Act and the Townshend Acts?”
    This whole conversation is proof that I didn’t have to be here for any of it. Ugh, he’s
still
going on. What’d this Townshend guy ever do to him?
    â€œWho taught him to stick up for the little guy? You! You’re a huge reason why America’s been kicking ass since before there was an America.”
    Definitely a blush. I could see her revising her opinion on Marc in particular and sodomites in general. “Oh, well,” she managed, then giggled. Giggled! So very, very, very weird to see a female version of the guy on the one-dollar bill giggling with a gay zombie. “I could only do my best and God’s will, like any woman.”
    â€œWhat, you’re a Revolutionary War buff now?” I wasn’t feeling pissy because they were ignoring me. I wasn’t! I had honest curiosity about whether or not Marc was a Revolutionary War buff.
    â€œI minored in eighteenth-century American history,” was his absent reply as he extended an elbow for Dame Washington to clutch with her gnarled fingers. “Madam, I can’t wait to meet people
you
think are interesting.”
    She chortled in response and began to lead him away, which simultaneously relieved and irked me. “Okay, well,see you later!” I said loudly. “And we’ve established I don’t need to be present for this kind of stuff, right?”
    Dame Washington stopped dead (not really), turned, gifted me with a warm, slightly yellowed smile (were
her
teeth wooden, too?). “Thank you so much, Mrs. Sinclair, for allowing this.” She dipped her head in a respectful nod, the twenty-first-century version of a curtsy, I figured. “If I can assist any other committee members, or you, in any way, I hope you’ll call on me.”
    â€œMrs. Sinclair! Oh, that’s wonderful!” Marc’s delighted shriek drowned out my muffled groan. “Oh, that’s worth any amount of tedium. I’m going to use that
constantly
. I’m buying her
so much stuff
with her name on it.”
    â€œNo need!” I called loudly, to their rapidly retreating backs. Sinclair had paid off all Marc’s student loans, so the son of a bitch had actual disposable income he could piss away on stuff I didn’t want. It wasn’t an idle threat!
    â€œEngraved stationery is always a thoughtful and practical gift for a lady,” Dame Washington suggested, because my life wasn’t weird and stressful enough. “Or monogrammed handkerchiefs.”
    â€œNo, really! I’m all set, guys. Got everything I need and then some.”
    â€œEngraved everything! Monogrammed everything!” Marc replied grandly as they went far, far away. Or so I hoped. “Towels, toilet paper, iPhone cases, luggage tags!”
    Engraved stationery and monogrammed toilet paper. Jesus wept. Or maybe that was only me.

CHAPTER
    SEVEN
    I did the