Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“One more!” shouts Pete. “Cody, you were blinking! Keep your eyes open, them pretty eyes your mama gave you! C’mon!”
“You just take bad pics!” Cody laughs back at him.
We pose once again, and this time, I’m not smiling. I swear I can hear breathing inside that giant, furry head—heavy breathing. Or is it a snicker? Is the monster some kind of ass-grabbing perv? I can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman inside there. The body of the monster removes any obvious tells.
“Three … two … one …” counts down Pete.
And just as he snaps the shot, the monster grabs my ass again.
I flinch away. “Did you just—?” I start to ask.
But the monster turns away at once, and the enormous bill of its oversized baseball cap whacks me in the face.
It hits me with such force, I do half a dance maneuver trying to keep my balance, lose my footing, then crash face-first onto the patch of grass by the road. I blink stars out of my eyes as I clamber clumsily back to my feet, head spinning, before Pete appears at my side to help me up. “Bridge, buddy, what the hell? You alright?”
I’m still blinking and wiping grass and dirt off my clothes as I wheel around to stare accusatorily at the Tackle Monster, but its full attention is already elsewhere, doing another silly dance for a crowd of kids who just arrived, all of them laughing and clapping to a tune I don’t know.
I stare at that monster, wholeheartedly confused, hand on my face where the back of that huge hat struck me.
“Yeah,” I finally answer Pete as I distractedly take my phone back from him. “I just … I just got clumsy … tripped … that’s all.”
Pete laughs and shakes his head. “You’re having an off day all around, man, I’m telling you, something’s up.”
“You two have got to try those Tacklers!” shouts Cody from the door, beckoning us with a wave of his hand into Biggie’s Bites. I follow behind Pete, Trey, and the parents, still holding my face, my dazed eyes on the monster. Just before entering the building, I watch it spin around to do another funny dance for the children, its furry fingers wiggling, and it might just be my imagination, but I swear it looks like that wicked monster’s flipping me off.
7
ANTHONY
I drop down onto the bench behind the building, pop off the big stupid head, and dowse my face with the water bottle.
“Fuckin’ Christ on a cracker it’s hot as balls in this.”
“Mr. Myers!” snaps the woman next to me with a swat of her hand on my shoulder. “It’s Sunday.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Tucker,” I mumble, then start chugging from the water bottle, finish it, and lean back, savoring the shade behind Biggie’s Bites. “Feels like I’m about to pass out.”
“I told you this was a bad idea. Why don’t you just—” At once, the mommy switch in her flips on. “Why don’t you take all that nonsense off and come inside? I’ll get you an ice cold tea, fix you some lunch. Have you eaten?”
“But I only worked an hour,” I protest, looking up at her. “I need more hours, ma’am. I just need a short break right now, a short break from the heat, and then I can—”
“Mr. Myers, I’m not gonna be responsible for a casualty on my watch, and them devil’s circles around your eyes tell me you are in no state to be in the sun. Record heat and it ain’t even the summer anymore. Now I’m givin’ you a break inside the building where it’s cooler and won’t hear another word. Inside, now, skidoo!”
One known rule about living in Spruce: you don’t argue with Billy Tucker’s mama.
Soon, the costume is off, piled by the back door like a mighty knight hacked that poor monster into pieces, and I’m sitting on a fold-out chair near the accounting office in a sweat-drenched tank top and shorts scarfing down a cheeseburger in my lap, an iced tea on the floor next to me. It’s my second tea. (I sucked that first one down so fast, I nearly swallowed the cup itself.) Mrs. Tucker comes to check on me when she has a break. “Now if you really need the hours,” she goes on telling me, “I think we could use you out there on the floor. I’ve seen you bussing tables at Gran’s Home Kitchen past few Sundays. Care to help bring out some orders, top people’s drinks off and all that?”
I swallow down my bite as I stare across the scullery at the long, skinny window separating the kitchen from the diner where all the noise comes from.
And I know that out there sits Reverend Trey, his husband, their parents—as well as the lucky out-of-town guests.