Chapter 1
Insufferable Geniuses
This story takes place before Script Swap.
The thing about living with other people, especially other adults, is that you have to handle situations delicately. Situations like—for example—a fair and equitable distribution of chores.
“It’s Dash’s turn,” Bobby said.
My. jaw. dropped.
Bobby frowned. “What? It is?”
And then he stood, picked up his glass and plate and flatware, and headed into the kitchen. Indira followed him, carrying her own dishes, and Millie too. Keme gave me a commiserating look—we had a silent understanding about chores—but he didn’t try to bail me out.
Fox had fallen asleep in their chair.
By the time I got into the kitchen, Indira and Keme and Millie were already leaving, and Bobby was looking at his phone.
I stared at the pile of dirty dishes. I thought about Fox, asleep in their chair.
It had gone on long enough.
But because I am the soul of tact—and also the soul of discretion, and also also the soul of wit—I decided the indirect route would be the best one.
“Gee,” I said. “Is it really my turn to do the dishes again?”
“Uh huh,” Bobby said as he scrolled.
“Already?”
This time, it wasn’t even words—it was one of those I’m-on-my-phone sounds that meant a general affirmation to whatever I’d just said.
“I wonder what Fox is doing,” I said.
Nothing.
“I said, I wonder what Fox is doing.”
Bobby reached over and turned on the water.
I turned it off. “They’re probably not that busy.”
Bobby turned the water on again.
I turned it off.
“They’re never busy, as a matter of fact. They’re probably just relaxing. You know, the way they do after every meal.”
Bobby looked up from his phone with a puzzled expression.
“Golly,” I said—and winced internally, because that might have been overdoing it a tad. “They might even be lying in the hall again, staring at the wallpaper.”
Bobby’s brows drew together.
This was it. The message was finally landing.
And then he turned the water on again. “You’ve got to let it warm up, babe.”
Okay. The indirect method wasn’t working.
I went for full-on Machiavellian. “It’s funny, because I swear I heard Keme saying something about how it was Fox’s turn to do the dishes.”
“It’s not,” Bobby said in the voice he uses when he’s reading about—of all things—soccer.
“Gee.” I winced again; I couldn’t seem to knock it off. “Funny thing, though. Now that you mention it, I guess you’re right. It’s not Fox’s turn, is it?”
“Nope. It’s yours.
“It never seems to be Fox’s turn.”
“The water’s warm, babe. You don’t want to waste it.”
And then HE HANDED ME A PLATE.
I said some words.
And then I said some more words.
And if Bobby had been anything like my mom when she’d been method-acting as a 1950s suburban housewife (it was for a book; don’t ask), he would have washed my mouth out with soap.
Bobby looked up.
Waving the plate at him, I demanded, “Are you kidding me?”
“What is—”
“Bobby, it’s never Fox’s turn. They never do the dishes. They never do anything!”
With a frown, Bobby seemed to think about this. “They don’t live here.”
“No, but that didn’t stop them from claiming the really good armchair in the billiard room under, quote, ‘permanent shotgun law.’ They’re here all the time. They practically live here. They eat dinner here almost every night.”
Bobby turned off the water. He considered me. “And you think they should take a turn at doing the dishes.”
“Yes, I do. I think it’s only right and fair and—”
“Right?”
“Equitable,” I snapped. (Although yes, I had been about to say right again.)
“Okay,” Bobby said.
I waited for the other shoe to drop. Bobby was going to make me clean the chimney instead. Or I was going to have to sweep the floor. Or Fox and I were going to have to do the dishes together.
But he didn’t say anything.
“Okay?” I finally asked.
“Okay,” Bobby said. “Tell Fox it’s their turn to do the dishes.”
My. jaw. dropped.
Again.
“What?” Bobby asked.
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate conflict!”
The expression on Bobby’s face suggested that he might possibly wish I hated conflict a little more—say, in this particular moment. But all he said was “Mm-hmm.”
“You know I don’t like to make waves.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not a complainer, Bobby. I’m too easygoing. I just want to go with the flow.”
“Right.”
I imagined my eyes as lasers.
Finally he said, “You want me to tell them?”
“Yes, God, thank you. You’re the best, Bobby. You’re amazing. This is why I love you.”
“I love you too, babe, but why should I be the one to tell them?”
“Because,” I said.
Bobby waited.
“You’re—I mean you—Bobby, everyone knows—” None of those sounded quite right, though, so I stopped. I smiled. I tried to summon the tremendous love I had for Bobby and send it radiating through my expression. And then what came out was “You always tell everyone what to do.”
Bobby stood there.
“No,” I said. “That’s not what I meant—”
He turned on the water. He walked out of the kitchen.
And as he passed me, he swatted me on the bum.