Page 44 of A Very No Strings Halloween
I shrug. “I know a guy.” Of course, the guy I’m talking about now is the ticket guy for the Tomcats who took a whole pile of my money in exchange for the box. But she doesn’t need to know that. “Hey, I have another surprise for you.”
I point to the corner of the box where her oma and opa are sitting. Her oma and opa are dressed in full Philly Lightning gear, head to toe. I wasn’t expecting people who grew up in Germany to have adopted the Philly teams so wholeheartedly. I thought maybe they were just trying to support their granddaughter. But when the first words out of her opa’s mouth wasn’tHelloor evenGuten Tagbut “The Tomcatsschtink!” I knew they were true-blue fans.
“What?! Oma? Opa? What are you doing here?” Donna’s voice is joyful, and it makes me so happy.
“Your kindundenergetic gentleman friend Wilhelm flew us here,” her opa says.
“Surprise!” her oma says as they both get up to hug Donna. “Ooof.Püppchen, you need to eat more.Have a strudel. I brought some with me on the plane.”
Donna turns to stare at me, shaking her head. “Billy, how…?”
I shrug again, saying, “I know a guy.” Of course, this was the ticket guy at the airport who took a whole pile of my money in exchange for two tickets on a last-minute flight.
This is why I like having money. Being able to gather my friends and family together and give them an experience like this. And Donna. And her family. The wholeknowing a guything used to be totally true. I got what I got through guile and charm. I’ve been able to do the things I do because I meet people at crazy parties, remember their names, and I save phone numbers. Donna doesn’t know I have a fuckton of money because I don’t broadcast it. I lease a Volvo. I still live in the same apartment building. But also because, as a rule, we didn’t get to know each other personally until recently.
But now I do want her to know me. The real me. And I don’t feel like the money is me. It’s just something that I have. But the guy I know who really makes things happen—that’s always been me.
“And who might this lovely young red-haired lady be? Billy, why haven’t you introduced me?” I get a loving smack up the backside of my head.
Here we go.
“Oh, hey, Ma.” I throw my arm around Ma and squeeze. “This here is Red, otherwise known as Donna Fischer.”
“What a pleasure to meet you, Donna Fischer. You are simply stunning and adorable with those pigtails, despite that god-awful hat and shirt!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Boston. I mean, O’Sullivan.” Just when I think Donna couldn’t get prettier, she blushes pink as a peach.
“So I guess this means Nolan lost the bet, huh?” Ma says, elbowing me. “What do we win?”
“Nothin’, Ma. It’s not like that.”
Ma puts her fists on her hips. Uh-oh. That is not a good sign. “Whaddya mean nothin’, young man?”
“Hey, Donna, why don’t you check on the spread. The drinks, everything’s all included. Go to town.”
“What are you doin’ tellin’ your date to check on the spread? What kind of animal did I raise? Go get her an appetizah, for cryin’ out loud.”
Donna, seeing that I need a save, helps me out. “I do prefer to peruse the catering table myself. Pleasure meeting you, Mrs. O’Sullivan.”
“You too, hon—such an absolute pleasure!” Ma says pleasantly to Donna as she leaves to check out the game-day buffet. Her smile drops, along with her tone, when she turns back to me. “Explain to me, William, who that full-figured youngredhead is, whose grandparents you flew in from Philly, if she’s not your girlfriend.”
“She’s my neighbor.”
“Neighbor, huh? Is that like how they changed the wordgirlfriendtopartner? Is neighbor the new shawty? Is she your boo thang?”
“What? No. She lives in the apartment next door to me. Not my girlfriend or my partner. She’s teaching me how to date properly.”
“I’m sorry—what’s this?” My ma holds her hand up to cup her ear while leaning in and scrunching up her face. “She’s teaching you how to date, you say? But not actually dating you?”
“Yeah. She offered to help.”
“And why didn’t you come tomefor advice? Huh? What am I, chopped livah? I don’t know how to date? I got your fathah to propose after two dates. Two.”
“What? Why would I ask you about something like this? You’re my mothah.”
This is how most of my conversations with my mother go. She never knows if I’m being serious, and I never know what she’s going on about. We love the hell out of each other; we just don’t speak the same language like me and my dad do.
“Exactly—because I’m your mothah! You’re supposed to come to me for everythin’.”
