She musses his hair again, frowning as she arranges it. ‘And you even have eyes.’
She can probably hear his heartbeat as he rockets out of his chest. She’s so close, her hands all through his hair.
‘I like your eyes,’ she says. ‘They look like infinite blue skies of possibilities.’
Is she … would she … kiss him?
‘That really wasn’t so traumatic now, was it?’ Moxie steps back, half a smile perched on her lips, but no longer touching him.
She has no idea, does she? What she does to his heart.
‘Ow,’ he says, dispassionately since Moxie doesn’t seem to care where she stabs her pins. Sympathy is not her strong point.
She mumbles something around a mouthful of pins that sounds like ‘Baby’ and then jabs another one into his shoulder.
He sits on the kitchen table while she turns him into a living porcupine. It’s the weekend and he’s been Moxie’s shadow for fifteen days. The guilt of soaking in this sweet, simple summer and not fighting with Avery for so long weighs on his chest. He’ll check on him tomorrow. Make sure he’s eating. Make sure he’s not on the edge of a meltdown.
The house is strangely devoid of the constant flow of Jeremy and Jack’s friends. They’re having a morose game of Monopoly at the other end of the table with Dash who, as Sam has been forcibly told, is ten and three quarters, and is currently draining the life out of her older brothers.
‘Mayfair,’ she crows. ‘And I have hotels.’
Jack drops his head on the table with a loud thunk.
‘Hey, don’t do that,’ Jeremy says, petting him tenderly. ‘You’ll knock out your brain cells and you don’t have enough to spare.’
Jack swears at him.
Mr De Lainey, of course, enters the room at that second. He has an eerie gift for appearing whenever his children are doing something disagreeable. He strolls over to the table and holds out his palm to Jack. ‘Phone.’
Jack looks helplessly at Jeremy. ‘He started—’
His father snaps his fingers.
Jack mutters something darkly unintelligible and slaps his phone in his father’s hand.
‘And bed for you, miss,’ Mr De Lainey adds to Dash.
‘But I’m winning!’
‘And it’s past ten.’
‘It’s holidays.’
‘Dash.’
She slides off her chair and stomps towards the stairs. ‘Don’t forget, I whopped your pathetic butts.’
Jeremy rubs his remaining two-dollar bills together. ‘Good game, Dashie.’
She beams and bounces up the stairs with Mr De Lainey in her wake.
‘Don’t make it late, kids.’ He pauses halfway up the stairs. ‘Is someone picking you up, Sam?’
Sam opens his mouth dumbly, and Moxie chooses that moment to stab him with a pin. He yelps.
‘Soon,’ Moxie says fiercely. ‘’Night, Dad.’
They wait till he’s gone before Moxie and Sam exchange glances. Sam can’t quite read Moxie’s expression, but he thinks it’s a mixture of relief – and guilt. His chest tugs. Two weeks is a lot of lying.
‘OK, take it off,’ Moxie says.
Sam shrugs out of the half-pinned material, jabbing himself several times in the process. She spreads it over the table and then goes to her sewing corner for extra supplies.
Jeremy sets up the Monopoly board again and Jack is on Jeremy’s phone, texting rapidly.
‘You don’t need to warn everyone you’ve lost your phone,’ Jeremy says. ‘Half the time they just text me anyway. It’s like, expected.’
‘Dad picks on me,’ Jack says.
Moxie reappears with an armful of garments. ‘Your voice carries the furthest because you’re a foghorn.’ She tosses the clothes in Sam’s lap and then hands him a small, lethal-looking weapon.
‘Who do I kill with this?’ Sam says.
‘That’s an unpicker, you goat. And these are second-hand clothes. This is where the “upcycle” comes into my stunning design work. We rip these old clothes to pieces and I remake them into something new.’
‘Dead people’s clothes.’ Jeremy pops houses on the board.
Jack makes an exasperated sound.
Sam swivels the small torture instrument. It feels like a lock pick. His body coils with a strange feeling – has he ever gone this long without stealing something?
‘Someone needs to be helpful around here.’ Moxie stares pointedly at her brothers. ‘Since they’re all completely useless.’
‘Excuse me,’ Jeremy says. ‘I did reconstructive surgery on Sammy’s hair and Jack cleaned the bathroom once. Last year, I think.’
‘I rest my case,’ Moxie mutters.
Grady appears, rubbing his eyes until his glasses are askew. ‘What’d I miss?’
‘Everything,’ Moxie says. ‘Here comes another useless De Lainey.’
Grady peers over Moxie and Sam’s shoulders, where they’re attacking seams in efficient unison. ‘Why don’t you just buy clothes? Save time.’
Moxie slams her scissors down, nostrils flaring. She stalks over to the huge whiteboard hanging by the fridge and wipes a corner free from the hubbub of family notes. She snaps the pen lid off with vicious intent and writes, in hard and tall letters: RANKINGS OF USEFULNESS.
‘Oh, here we go,’ Jeremy says.
She starts with Grady and gives him a four out of ten.
Grady slides on to the bench across from Sam. ‘Ouch.’
Moxie writes her own name and a big fat ten next to it.
‘This seems unfair,’ Jeremy comments. ‘You can’t even cook.’
Moxie’s frown is lemon. ‘Excuse you? I can heat up lasagne. I look after the kids all the time now. And yesterday I reminded Dad that we’re nearly out of chocolate. I’m keeping this family together.’ She writes Jeremy’s name as she says this and gives him a seven.
Then she writes Jack and gives him a one.
Jack throws his Monopoly money. ‘Give me that pen, you little freak.’
Moxie blows hair out of her face and writes Sam’s name next.
He rips seams nervously, the unpicker stuck between his teeth and his hair filled with cotton fluff.
The pen hesitates. Then Moxie gives him an eight.