Page 135 of Releasing 10
“Definitely not,” Claire agreed from her perch on my bed, where she was painting her toenails. “Ew, Patrick. Don’t insult the Gibson genes.”
“Thank you, Claire-Bear,” Gibsie replied, stretching a hand up to high-five my sister. She paused mid-toe to pat his hand. “That shite-hawk will never be my family.”
“His fatherdidmarry your mam, lad,” Feely reminded him with a good-natured chuckle. “That makes him your stepbrother.”
“Don’t fucking remind me,” Gibsie groaned, retraining his focus on the game ofFIFA 98we were playing. “Keith Allen.” He sniffed the air like the name offended him. “He should be called Keith Alien because that’s what he is.” He tapped furiously on the PlayStation controller. “A fucking parasitic intruder.”
“What did I miss?” Lizzie asked, returning with an armful of snacks from the kitchen. Dressed in a long-sleeved, flannel shirt and baggy jeans, she looked beautiful. Dropping a packetof Minstrels on my lap, she eyed the beanbag I was sharing with Feely before deciding against it. She then moved for my bed before hilariously recoiling in horror when she eyed the unfolding pampering session.
Backing away from my sister as inconspicuously as she could, Liz found sanctuary with Gibs on a purple, inflatableGroovy Chickarmchair. The armchair said sister had traipsed into my room with earlier.
Claire had insisted that we all stay in the same room and have a slumber party. She had grander notions of pillow fights, gossip, and girl talk and was insistent that we stay in her room. However, my room possessed the PlayStation, and the boys held the majority, hence the current setup.
“Who’s a parasitic intruder, Thor?” Liz asked, butting his hip with hers to scoot over. “Who do I need to hurt?”
“You would, wouldn’t ya?” Gibs chuckled, shoving over to let her slide onto the seat next to him. “Little viper.”
“Keith Allen,” Claire chimed in, toenail painting resumed. “And I wholeheartedly agree.”
Oh, here we go.
Stifling a groan, I flopped back on the beanbag and braced myself for trouble.
“I was just saying that if your sister marries Mark, then you and Gibs will be family,” Feely explained, clearly out of the loop when it came to our friend and his feelings toward his stepfamily.
It wasn’t Feely’s fault. He didn’t live on the street, and Gibsie was a master concealer. The worse shit got at home, the more outrageously funny he became. “According to Gibs, that’s not a good thing.”
“It’s not,” Liz agreed, sharing a packet of Tayto with Gibs. “Besides, we don’t need them to get married to be family.”
“Exactly,” he said, wholeheartedly agreeing with her.
“Can we not talk about that creep?” Claire asked, looking almost as disgusted as she sounded. “It’s bad enough he’s in our lounge, sucking face with Caoimhe.” A shudder rolled through her. “Ew.”
“Agreed,” I chimed in, grinning when I scored another goal against Feely’s team. “It’s Christmas, lads, not Halloween.”
“Speaking of Christmas…” With a hearty chuckle, Gibsie hooked a playful arm around Liz’s neck and pulled her close. “I have a present for you.”
“Don’t you dare,” the rest of us started to protest, but it was too late for that when a painfully long and painfully foul-smelling trump ripped through the air.
“Oh my God, Gibs, did you justfart?” Liz choked out through fits of laughter, as she tried to wrestle her way out of Gibsie’s headlock. “Ah, ah, I think I can taste it.”
“Breathe it in,” Gibsie encouraged, using his foot to fan the air toward her. “That’s my special recipe.”
“Jesus Christ, what did you eat?” Feely demanded, using his T-shirt to cover his nose. “It smells like somethingdiedinside of you, lad.”
“You know I like baked beans with my spuds,” Gibs laughed before breaking into song. “Beans, beans, are good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart, the more you fart, the more you eat—”
“The more you sit on the toilet seat,” Claire chimed in, pegging her nose with her fingers. “How many tins of beans did youeat, Gerard?”
“Hey, at least it wasn’t spinach,” he laughed back before crooning, “Popeye the sailor man, he lives in a caravan, he lives with his mammy, she tickles her fanny, he’s Popeye the sailor man…”
“You aresick,” Feely snickered, shaking his head. “Absolutely vile, lad.”
“I have more,” Gibsie offered, still laughing. “Do ye want to hear them?”
“No!” all four of us chorused.
“Fine,” he huffed before retraining his attention on Liz, who was trying to break free of his hold. “Come here, Liz. Santa forgot to deliver your present, so he asked me to give it to you.”
