Page 59 of There I Find Rest

Their basement was a huge open area, with exercise machines and a home gym set up on one side complete with wall mirrors and a fridge with cold water, while on the other side was a huge flatscreen TV that took up most of the end wall, with seats and couches in front of a home theater complete with surround sound.

“Holy cow,” the girl breathed beside him.

“And if you don’t talk, I can put you on one of those ancient torture devices and make you talk,” he said, referring to the exercise equipment.

“Don’t be stupid, Rich Boy, I know what exercise equipment looks like.”

“I wasn’t sure, Brat.”

“I have a name.”

“I do too. It’s Rodney.”

“Just Rodney? You mean, rich boys only have one name?”

“Rodney Englebert Rochester Southhall the Third, if you must know.” He hated his name. Hated how long and pretentious it was.

“Well, that’s a mouthful. Big, fancy name. I’ll just call you Dixie,” she murmured.

He led her over to a chair, figuring she wasn’t going anywhere until she ate now. She was holding the container in her hands, but he could remedy that easily enough.

“What’s your name?” he said, taking the food from her and indicating the chair where he wanted her to sit.

She plopped on the floor instead. “Becky Peck, but you can call me Becky. I don’t have a gazillion titles after my name.”

“I don’t have any titles after mine, either.”

“Rodney Southhall, ruler of Strawberry Manor, Prince of Strawberry Sands, and King of Lake Michigan.”

“You’re not even funny. Now, you can make your own sandwich unless you need me to show you how. We don’t eat off the floor here, and I don’t have a dog bowl handy.”

“Shut up, Dixie.”

“Okay, Bekpek,” he said, teasing her but realizing that it was probably a good name for her, especially if she was going to call him Dixie. Dixie wasn’t exactly a manly name, but it was better than Rich Boy.

“Now, I’m wondering why you’re sneaking around your own home, same as I am, why?” She leaned forward, like she was interrogating him, as she stared at him, which he had to admit was a little disconcerting. Especially with her teeth right below her eyes like that.

“I spiked the punch yesterday at my parents’ big shindig, and Mrs. Doolittle got drunk, ran around with toilet paper stuck to her shoe, and asked everybody where her dentures were. So, what’s the story with you?”

She snorted, and he figured he did the right thing by telling the truth. Even if it was embarrassing. After all, he hadn’t meant to make anyone make a fool of themselves.

“I just sneak around houses for the kicks and giggles,” she said.

He figured he wasn’t going to get the accurate story from her. Not until she trusted him. Which she probably wasn’t going to do today.

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“So you’re ten.”

“Eleven.”

That was probably pretty accurate.

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Of course.” She already had two pieces of bread, and she’d slapped enough meat on them to make three sandwiches and enough cheese that it made his stomach roll.

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