Page 19 of The Art of Being Merry
They both scurry from the couch over to the TV cabinet, revealing a gaming console behind a sliding door.
I’m not sure what I’m in for, but it can’t be too hard, right?
Atlas is all too happy to give me a crash course in the game. Except his patience quickly wears thin when I don’t pick up on everything he’s teaching me. Apparently, there are “rules” everyone knows even if they’re unwritten. Or something to that effect is what I think he implied.
I tell them it’s more fun to watch—which is a partial lie because there’s nothing “fun” about this game, but at least the criticizing ends—and look for ideas for an ugly sweater Clementine’s going to help me create.
She texts again in the middle of my research.
We are finally leaving Target and heading to the bookshop. All good on the home front?
Besides the fact I suck at Minecraft, yep
Ah, don’t feel bad. Definitely need a creative gene
I don’t read too much into her text message.
You play?
Before I let Atlas get into it, I had to learn it for myself. I don’t get it at all, but he’s obsessed. I limit him to like an hour a day, otherwise he’d be on it every waking hour
today notwithstanding. He can play as long as he wants. Not worth your headache of listening to him bitch at you
I can be the bad cop if needed
I’ve never been in the scenario of having to be the disciplinarian to anyone other than Shania, but how hard can it be? He’s smaller than me, and his life experience is way less, giving me a total advantage.
Let’s not let it come to that. Text you later when I’m on my way home
Okay. Have fun
A notification from the app announces the pizza will be here in about five minutes. I scour the kitchen for plates, nearly ripping one of the cabinet doors off in my search.
“Whoops.”
The game pauses, and Atlas appears by my side, staring at the hanging cabinet door. “That’s been broken since we moved in. It’s on Mama’s list to fix, but it’s a long list.” He scratches his head, his gaze swirling back to me. “I’ve never seen the list, but she’s always mumbling something about one.”
“Is she now?” I assess the damage. The screw is loose, but the hinge is so rusted, no wonder it’s broken. “Pizza will be here in a few. Go wash your hands.”
Atlas stares at me. “Did Mama tell you to remind us to wash our hands?” There’s something off about his question, but I can’t tell what.
“No.”
“So how did you know it’s one of her rules?”
“Because it’s what you do before you eat. Wash hands. Everyone knows that.”
His eyes squint, and he looks like he wants to say more. Thinking better of it, he turns around and heads to the bathroom. Score one for Dax.
Making a mental note to grab a new hinge the next time I’m at the hardware store, I find a stack of paper plates and grab a few. I doubt the boys will want to wait for Clementine to get home to eat, so I turn on the oven to low and will put hers in to warm.
My phone alerts me the pizza’s on the front steps, and when I come back from grabbing it, the boys are seated at the table.
Setting the boxes down on a counter, I ask them, “What do you like to drink?”
“We drink milk or water with meals,” Atlas explains, which catches me off guard that he’s so honest about it. ‘Cause I would have thought he’d be one to push for something he’s not allowed to have. That’s what I would have done at his age.
“Great. Which do you want?”
