Page 5 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
“Paul dropped it off last week. Latest model—hasn’t even hit the market yet,” Bob says with a grin. He watches proudly while we stand there in horror as the robot makes its way to the mess I left behind, slurping up the pasta sauce and glass in a matter of seconds.
Spill-e: Paul Cooke’s greatest invention, and my family’s worst nightmare.
“Spill eliminated,” Spill-e announces once the mess is cleaned up, returning dutifully to its charging dock behind the counter.
Old Bob gives Spill-e a round of applause before turning back to our groceries. “Incredible, those things.”
“Right,” Dad spits out. We’re lucky he didn’t try to punch it square between the googly eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Maya starts shoving our groceries down the conveyer belt. “We need to go.”
Dad and I nod. Now’s not the time to monologue to Old Bob about Spill-e’s salacious backstory, so we focus on helping Maya unload the last of our things while Andy looks on in dazed confusion. We shove things into Old Bob’s hands faster than he can scan them, all of our groceries bagged in three minutes flat.
We’re halfway to the exit when Old Bob snaps his fingers, ushering us back over. His eyes are wide as he reaches for a flyer from the stack behind him. “If you’ll be sticking around for a bit, you should sign up for the Winter Games.” He slaps the flyer down onto the counter, pushing it toward us. “Hasn’t been much of a competition lately. A little Seo-Cooke versus Báez action could be the shake-up this place needs.”
The flyer is as lively as the town that lives in my memories, cheerful snowmen and dancing elves welcoming one and all to compete in the annual Lake Andreas Winter Games. Or, better known to us as the Lawgies. Because “Winter Games” was too complex for a pair of five-year-olds to remember.
These games are as sore a subject as the Seo-Cookes themselves. Years of second-place medals and dirty tricks flash through my mind as Dad snatches the flyer and stuffs it into one of our bags.
“Sign-ups are next week,” Old Bob explains. “We haven’t gotten much interest these past few years, so we decided to push the date out, to try to lure in some of the New Year’s Eve crowd.”
“We’ll think about it.” Dad hoists our bags into his arms, mumbling a hurried goodbye before ushering us out of the store.
“Glad to have y’all back!” Old Bob calls out as we bustle toward the entrance. “Hasn’t been the same without ya.”
That I can believe. Who would’ve thought our greatest family legacy would be our rivalry with the assholes next door?
We hustle back to the car, checking over our shoulders for any signs of Julian, his siblings, or his parents. “Was the rest of the pack with him?” Maya whispers to me.
“I didn’t see anyone.”
She breathes a sigh of relief, slowing down to a fast walk instead of a jog. “We’re probably safe, then. We would’ve been able to smell Stella’s hair spray by now. And Henry’s impossible to miss. Like a mountain troll.”
“Who are we talking about?” Andy asks, visibly annoyed.
“They’re a family that we don’t exactly get along with,” Dad answers diplomatically.
“We hate them,” Maya interjects.
Dad shakes his head, opening the trunk and tossing in the groceries more haphazardly than anyone with a carton of eggs should. “Hateis a strong word.”
“Am I wrong?”
His silence speaks volumes.
Maya claps her hands once we’re back in the safety of the car, waiting until she has Andy’s undivided attention before continuing. “Let me break it down for you. The Seo-Cookes are basically evil incarnate.”
Dad eyes her in the rearview mirror. “Cuidate,” he hisses—his go-to phrase for when she needs to check herself.
She rolls her eyes but heeds the warning. “Fine. They’re loaded, obnoxious, and annoying as hell.” She pauses, turning to Dad with a critical look. He nods in approval, waving his hand for her to continue. “Every year they manage to find new and cruel ways to torture us. Kicking sand in our eyes, sabotaging our kayaks, stealing our swimsuits whenever we use the communal showers at the pool.”
“One time they dumped a bucket of earthworms on me.” I pause for dramatic effect. A chill runs down my spine at the cold, slimy memory. I still can’t use a communal shower without feeling like someone’s out to get me. “So, we threw pies in their faces.”
“I didn’t endorse that prank, for the record,” Dad cuts in.
“You helped us bake the pies.”
Once again, Dad remains silent, not even bothering to hide his amusement this time.
