Page 74 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I’m stretched out on the counter, feet under the cabinet to brace myself, and my torso and arms hanging completely off, desperately reaching for the chair to hook the table to drag it closer to get my phone.

To his credit, Booker made quick work of the yard between our two houses. But the panicked expression on his face tells me that my screams made it sound like I was being murdered.

He looks around, but then his gaze settles on me.

Pretty sure he can see down my shirt all the way to my belly button.

I clutch my arms over my shirt, snap my jaw shut, and try not to think about how ridiculous andunsexyI look right now.

“I heard screaming.” He starts toward me, stopping at my upheld hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Mouse,” I say, still hanging halfway off the counter.

He blinks. “What?”

“There’s. A. Mouse. In. Here,” I say, emphasizing each word so there’s no confusion.

“A... mouse?”

“Or a wombat. Or... something! It’s huge!”

“All of this”—he motions toward me, I assume to indicate where and how I’m currently sitting—“Is because of a mouse?”

“Booker!”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Are you here to help me or mock me?”

“I’m trying to decide.” He starts looking around the kitchen,and I clamber back farther onto the counter—one part Ninja and one part drunken bear—and furiously jab a finger toward the laundry room.

He smirks and nods toward where I’m pointing. “In there?”

“It’s in there!” I hiss through gritted teeth. Why isn’t he moving faster? Doesn’t he see that my life is in danger?

He walks—no tiptoeing, no goose-stepping, just normal walking—around to the door of the small room and looks inside. I scoot along the edge of the counter, feet still up off the floor, and watch as he leans down to inspect the area. He moves the washer and the dryer, and that’s when I hear something scrambling against the wall in the corner.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!”

“Hey, Rosie,” he calls. “It’s not a mouse.”

I gasp. “Wombat?”

I hear him laugh. “Chipmunk.”

“That’s so much worse!” I start to panic again. “Chipmunks are definitely bigger than mice!”

“It’s terrified,” he says. “And kind of cute actually.”

Is that somehow supposed to make me sympathetic? I want him to put it in one of those T-shirt cannons.

Okay, that was harsh. And it’s not true. I just don’t want it in the house or anywhere nearme.

I can only see Booker’s back, but he’s grabbed a broom and, I think, he’s attempting to coax the animal into an empty cardboard box he pulled from our recycling bin. I can’t believe I’m actually grateful to have a housemate who doesn’t break down boxes before she puts them in the bin.

A few minutes later, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, he stands and closes the lid of the box. I hear the trapped animal frantically running around inside as Booker walks straight past me, which makes me curl up in a shrunken ball, clutching my knees to my chest.

He stops briefly and says, “Wanna see?”

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