Page 26 of Owen Bailey Needs Advice

“You guess?” I say, peering back at the blonde in the photo.

“Bucky T. Matthews, if you aren’t in this room in 3… 2…”

I pause my insistence and watch. My sister is like a rocket launcher. She counts and then something usually explodes. But those boys come. If they don’t—well, gosh, I’m not sure what would happen. I’ve never seen that before.

The tapping of racing feet pads over the carpeted ground, and then my eight-year-old nephew is in the doorway. Hisbrown hair is buzzed short, and his pale cheeks have gone rosy red with his race.

“Yes, mama?” he says, and his throat bobs with a gulp.

Kayla stands, hands on hips, in front of the little man. “Bucky, why did we buy that flannel shirt?” She points to the shirt spread out on the bed. The one with the big red stain across the front.

But Bucky surprisingly perks up with the question. He’s onJeopardy, and he knows the answer to this one! “School picture day.”

“That’s right. School picture day. And do you remember what I told you about this shirt?”

“You said, ‘Don’t wear your picture shirt until picture day.’” Still, my kamikaze nephew is grinning ear to ear.

“That’s right. So,whydid you wear this shirt, mister?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t. You said, ‘Listen up and listen good.’ And I did, Mama. I didn’t wear it.”

“Buck,” Kayla groans. “If you didn’t wear the shirt, then how did it get the red stain?”

“Oh, that.” Buck trots over to the bed and picks up the shirt, ready to reenact for us. “Steve brought his Kool-Aid in here, and when he spilled it all over the desk, I knew just what you’d say:if you spill it, clean it up.” He gives her a big missing tooth grin. “So that’s what I did.”

“With your shirt? You cleaned it up with your picture shirt?”

“Yep. You said you don’t like us using the good rags on Kool-Aid or jam or marker or—”

And that’s when she deflates. Hands fall to her sides, head rolls back, and a raspberry blows from her lips. “You didn’t put it in the laundry,” she says.

“Nope. I hadn’t worn it yet.”

“Right.” She plops herself onto Buck’s unmade bed. “Well, what are you going to wear to picture day?”

Buck wrinkles his nose, clearly not a fan of the long-sleeved button-up, and points at the ruined flannel.

I’m pretty sure Kayla’s eruption is coming, but I still try to diffuse it. “Ah, Buck. You can’t wear that now. Do you have something else?”

His little brown eyes brighten. “Sure. I’d like my picture taken with Thor.” He pulls out a raggedy red T-shirt that looks as if it’s been worn a hundred times and might be a size too small for him. Ironically, it would have been perfect for cleaning up red Kool-Aid.

My eyes dart from my nephew to Kayla. I wait for the steam to fly from her ears. When it doesn’t, I ask Bucky, “Ahh, anything else?”

“Spiderman would be okay too.” He rifles through the drawer, then pulls a blue shirt with a small tear at the hem and holds it up for me.

There’s a reason Kayla’s the mom and I’m not. “Buck,” she says, pulling the faded red tee from his hands. “Why didn’t you clean up the red Kool-Aid with this shirt? It’s already red?” Her cheeks are pink, and her words clipped, but she doesn’t lose it.

Oprah, Dr. Phil, and our mother would be so darn proud.

“Thor does not drink Kool-Aid. He’s strictly an ale man.”

“Ale man?” I say.

Kayla runs a hand down the front of her face. “It’s true, he is.” Then she opens drawer number two and pulls out a short-sleeved button-up, yellow-and-gray plaid.

“Aw, mom. That’s from Silva’s wedding.” A long moan escapes my nephew.

“Well, you get to wear this because this,” she says, holding up the long-sleeved, stained shirt, “is no longer an option.”

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