Page 3 of Rumi: The Hawthornes

“How’s that?” Rumi asked as we watched Bird running back and forth, shooting water at nothing.

“I could’ve had a brother named Trans Am,” I replied dryly.

Rumi’s head twisted quickly in my direction like he was checking to see if I was serious and a beat later, his laughter filled the space around us.

“I guess that’s true,” he said, nodding. “Wanna know something kind of funny?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a brother named Otto.”

“Auto?” No freaking way. I would’ve remembered a name like that. “Like a car?”

“No, Otto, like O-T-T-O.”

“Oh.”

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“You know what my mom sometimes calls him, though?” His lips pulled up in a sly smile. “Otto-mobile.”

“Shut up.”

“Swear to God,” he said with a grin, lifting one hand like he was being sworn in at court. “You’d fit right in at our house.”

“Lucky me,” I joked, ripping out more grass so I could sprinkle it over my shoe.

“You’re Samson’s granddaughter, right?” Rumi asked.

“Yeah.” Samson was the nickname Pop had long before he’d even met Nana. He said it was because of the long hair that he wore in a braid down his back, but I thought the truth was that he’d been given the nickname because he was so strong. I’d seen him lift a fridge once with just his arms and a belt thing strapped over his shoulders.

“He’s cool,” Rumi said, wiggling the toes of his shoes. “So is Ash.”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Ash makes the best spaghetti bake thing,” Rumi murmured with a sigh, closing his eyes as he tilted his face up to the sun. “She puts it all together and then bakes it with all this cheese shit on top, and it melts—”

“Yeah, I’ve had it,” I replied dryly. His eyes popped open.

“Right,” he said sheepishly. “’Course you have.”

“It’s good,” I conceded, making him smile.

“But her potato soup is better.”

“The hell you say,” he argued, straightening up.

Bird yelled something intelligible as he swung the squirt gun and fell to his knees, shooting water at the grass.

“She puts bacon and mushrooms and—”

“Mushrooms are fuckin’ nasty,” Rumi cut me off. “Gross.”

I shrugged. “Nana said most kids think mushrooms are gross until they’re adults and realize how fantastic they are.” I let the comment simmer for a moment. “Maybe you’re just not old enough yet.”

Instead of getting mad, Rumi laughed. “I’m thirteen.”

“Me too.”

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