45 Days to Save the Bad Boy

Twenty-Five

Dear George, apparently story time is a lame thing that no one does.  Peter “politely” told Breton and I that we were losers, while Dallas hung up on me when I said story time.  So I’m sitting on the Joel’s living room couch while Breton makes snacks.  Popcorn and I think he mentioned chocolate, lemonade for me and soda for him.

I’m excited to learn more about Breton’s childhood.  It’s only fair, since he knows more about me than I do about him.  I mean, he read you!  I write all my childhood stories in here.

Well, the funny ones anyway.

“Georgie, do you want lemonade, or pink lemonade?” Breton called from the kitchen.

“Ooh, pink lemonade please,” I called back.

I heard rummaging, the refrigerator closing, and footsteps coming near.

“The popcorn will be done in about a minute,” Breton said, tossing me a can of pink lemonade.  I caught it deftly as he continued, “I’m just going to go watch it so I can grab it while it’s hot.”

“‘Kay,” I replied.  “I’ll just be here, salivating.”  We exchanged smiles, then the microwave timer went off and Breton had to grab the popcorn.

“Hey, how do you feel about Hershey’s Kisses?” he asked, coming back out with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a bag of Hershey’s in the other.

“Yummy,” I answered, reaching up and taking the bag out of his hand as he sat down.  

“Okay, now that we have snacks, start talking,” I ordered, unwrapping a Kiss and popping it my mouth.

“Why do I have to start the conversation?” Breton asked.  “I want to hear the whole bookshelf story.”

“Too bad.  You go first.”

“Alright.  Okay, give me a chance to remember.”  He shifted into a thoughtful pose.  I stared at his profile.  Then I poked his face.

“Look, I don’t even care if it’s a made up story at this point.  Just tell me a story,” I whined.

“Okay fine!” he laughed.  “I’ve got a good one.”

I snuggled against his side, leaning my head on his shoulder and waiting for him to continue.

“Georgie?” he asked quietly.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

I frowned.  “What are you doing?  I thought you were going to tell me a story!”  I lifted my head, but he quickly guided it back down to his shoulder.

“Right, yeah, story.  Just curious, do you always listen to stories like this?”  He seemed a little flustered for some reason.

“Well, sometimes.  I did when I was little.  Now I just want to cuddle.”  Suddenly it occurred to me that he might not be comfortable with the breach of his personal space.  “Sorry.  I can move.  I guess I just didn’t think…”

“Nah, you’re fine,” he told me, relaxing his body before I could move.  “Okay, so once upon a time, Peter and I were playing in his backyard.  You probably didn’t see his yard when you were at his house, but it’s pretty big.  Anyway, we would play out there a lot.”

I already knew about the yard, because Peter had told me, but I didn’t say anything.

“One day, we were playing cowboys and Indians.  We were only eight, and I didn’t know what cowboys and Indians had to do with the game, because I didn’t really care.  I don’t think Peter had any idea either, except that it sounded cool.  The way Peter and I played it, they didn’t have anything to do with the game actually, aside from one of us was called a cowboy and the other one was an Indian.  Anyway, we were playing it in autumn.  Peter, the cowboy, had a big pile of leaves raked up and he called it a pile of cash.  I had to give him any cash I found, and add it to the pile.  Every time I added a leaf to the pile with my hands, I got two leaves for my own pile.  When I added a leaf with my feet, I got three leaves.  Soon, his yard was empty of leaves, except for our two piles, his large and mine still pretty small.