Page 20 of The Grumpy Billionaire
Apparently, my mom was moving on as well. After thirty years of unhappily-ever-after, she’d left my dad—or rather kicked him out. The Eastport Bay estate had been part of her inheritance, not his, so he now called a townhouse in Providence home, and she was turning our family home into a funhouse.
She’d completely redecorated the house—and herself.
Her hair, which had been a dark brown like mine her whole life, was now blonde. Her forehead was tighter than I’d seen it in years, and her lips were suspiciously plump. My mother had turned into a Bratz doll, the middle-aged edition.
She’d also bought a whole new wardrobe. Boxes arrived on the front porch daily. She said she needed all the new clothes to fit her smaller size which she’d arrived at thanks to her new favorite pastime, attending a disco dancer-cize class at a local gym.
The class instructor, Ricardo, who was about twenty years younger—and almost certainly gay—was her new “boyfriend.”
I wasn’t sureheknew they were an item, but they spent a lot of time together, and Mom talked about him like he was the second coming of Richard Simmons.
“Ricardo’s on his way to pick me up. He’s taking me out to Rooftop at the Providence G tonight,” she explained. “He’s a fabulous dancer. Sooooo sexy.”
Gesturing to her outfit, which consisted of a fringe-y leather bikini top and matching skin-tight leather pants, she asked, “What do you think? This outfit is very ‘now.’ You should get one like it.”
“I’m not sure I’m ‘now’ enough to wear that,” I said. “I like your shoes.”
Her sneakers were glittery gold with large stars on the sides. “These are Golden Goose,” she explained. “They’re Italian. I’ll order you some.”
“That’s okay. Thanks anyway. Hey, do you know where Bax and Bowie are tonight?” I asked just as the front doorbell chimed. “They were already gone when I got home from work.”
“Out with friends, I’m sure,” Mom said in a breezy tone. “That’ll be Ricky.”
She hurried for the door. When she opened it, “Ricky” was not standing outside. An Eastport Bay police officer was.
Beside him were my two brothers who looked a little banged up and alotintoxicated.
“Good evening, Mrs. Neely,” the officer said.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
She sounded more irritated than worried. Clearly the boys were alive and relatively unscathed from whatever they’d been up to. Also, she was used to it.
Evidently, my sixteen-year-old brothers were doing their best to win the grand prize in theWho Wants to Go to Reform School?competition. This was not the first time they’d been Ubered home by the police department, and they’d recently been kicked out of Eastport Bay High School for pulling one too many pranks.
The final straw had been when they’d somehow gained entry to the school before dawn and hidden hundreds of alarm clocks all over the building—which they’d set to go off at two-minute intervals all day long.
Their fellow students were reportedly very amused.
The principal was not.
Baxter and Bowie had apparently not learned anything from the expulsion. They now attended a private school just outside Eastport Bay—no doubt my dad had pulled some high-level strings to get them admitted in the middle of the fall semester—and I’d become well acquainted with the headmaster there in the past month.
The man placed regular frustrated phone calls to our home about their truancy and/or unruly behavior, and Mom was usually not around to answer them.
The police officer answered her question. “Your sons were in a minor fender bender in Providence, Mrs. Neely—on Allens Avenue in front of the Wild ZebraGentlemen’sClub. They weren’t injured, but the BMW they were driving was damaged. I don’t need to tell you they’re too young to be in any of those clubs—or to be drinking alcohol.”
“We weren’t drinking,” Bowie said, punctuating the obvious lie with a loud, alcohol-scented burp.
Bax offered his best attempt at a charming smile. “I was drinking… but not much.”
He held one hand up and pinched his pointer finger and thumb together. The word “much” came out sounding like “mush” instead.
“Get in here, both of you,” Mom ordered, and the boys obediently stumbled inside.
To the officer, she said, “Thank you so much for bringing them home. We’ll have someone pick up the car in the morning.”
She tried to hand him a tip, but he waved his hands in front of him and backed away. “I’m not a delivery driver, Mrs. Neely.”
