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“ W ell , that’s never happening. Not today, not this year, not next year, not in ten million years when I am half-cyborg ruling my own space station. The very notion, in fact, is absurd. Absurd and preposterous. Absurdly preposterous.”
Maps’ dad took his glasses off his face, set them down on the table, and rubbed his temples. They were sitting down at the kitchen table across from each other. Maps had his arms crossed in front of his chest, while his father slouched in the wooden chair.
“Mattie,” his absurdly preposterous father said. “Other kids your age get part-time jobs. It’s perfectly normal.”
“But dad, as you well know, I am not perfectly normal,” Maps stated as though it were his crowning achievement.
His father mumbled something under his breath.
“Also,” Maps went on, “I’m much too busy to get a job .” He put his fingers in the air, making quotation gestures as if job was a made up word his father had just created to be cruel to him. “A person with my level of intellect does not need a job .”
“I have a job,” Benji hollered from where he was seated on the couch watching America’s Next Top Model. The top of his head was just peeking over top of the couch.
“See?” His father pointed in the general direction of Benji. “Benji has a job.”
Maps gave his dad a meaningful look.
“Hey, I saw that!” Benji yelled.
“Benji, I’m sure your IQ is huge. Gargantuan, even. Too large to be measured on any scale. Large enough to send all the ladies aflutter,” Maps said.
“That’s right,” Benji replied. “Ladies love big IQs.”
Maps’ dad looked like he’d rather be on a plane ride to Eastern Europe with only screaming newborn babies in the seats around him.
“Your mother and I think it’s best for you to get a job instead of sitting around the house all day, lighting things on fire and sulking about Lane being away at baseball camp.”
Maps’ jaw dropped. He guffawed and threw his hands up in the air.
“Sulking!” he said, his eyebrows touching his hairline. “Maps Wilson does not sulk. He prowls and ponders, and perhaps peruses, but he does not sulk.”
“He also lies through his teeth!” shouted Benji from the couch.
Maps had not been sulking. He’d been living the free life while Lane was away at baseball camp for the summer. And how was baseball camp even a real thing? And who was crazy enough to sign up for it? Toss, catch, toss, catch. How much more could there be to it?
Maybe Maps and Lane had left things a little up in the air when Lane left, but that didn’t mean he was sulking. In fact, now that Lane hadn’t been around with those distracting teeth of his, Maps had got a lot done.
He’d conducted a few experiments involving the shaving of his armpits with his mom’s razor, which, for some reason, sent her into one of her frenzies. There was an experiment involving panty hose and garlic, one that resulted in Benji running from a rabid poodle, and his own personal favorite, the one with the electrical wires and the robot parrot toy that he named Frankenbird. That was the experiment that Maps’ dad referred to when he mentioned Maps setting things on fire. And it only happened twice, so he wasn’t really sure what all the fuss was about.
Regardless. He had been living the sweet, sweet bachelor life doing experiments and hanging out with his best friend, Benji. What more could a rakish rogue like Maps ask for?
Still, he had to admit that he’d stared longingly a time or two at the outside of Lane’s window. And, yeah, okay, maybe a time or two he’d taken the maps that Lane had given him off the wall and studied them for a few hours. And he’d admit that once or twice he’d worn Lane’s old baseball cap and fallen asleep in his bed wearing it and listening to Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
But that didn’t mean he missed Lane.
Sure, he missed the sound of Lane’s laugh, Lane’s big ‘ol gapped teeth, his pear-green
“ W ell , that’s never happening. Not today, not this year, not next year, not in ten million years when I am half-cyborg ruling my own space station. The very notion, in fact, is absurd. Absurd and preposterous. Absurdly preposterous.”
Maps’ dad took his glasses off his face, set them down on the table, and rubbed his temples. They were sitting down at the kitchen table across from each other. Maps had his arms crossed in front of his chest, while his father slouched in the wooden chair.
“Mattie,” his absurdly preposterous father said. “Other kids your age get part-time jobs. It’s perfectly normal.”
“But dad, as you well know, I am not perfectly normal,” Maps stated as though it were his crowning achievement.
His father mumbled something under his breath.
“Also,” Maps went on, “I’m much too busy to get a job .” He put his fingers in the air, making quotation gestures as if job was a made up word his father had just created to be cruel to him. “A person with my level of intellect does not need a job .”
“I have a job,” Benji hollered from where he was seated on the couch watching America’s Next Top Model. The top of his head was just peeking over top of the couch.
“See?” His father pointed in the general direction of Benji. “Benji has a job.”
Maps gave his dad a meaningful look.
“Hey, I saw that!” Benji yelled.
“Benji, I’m sure your IQ is huge. Gargantuan, even. Too large to be measured on any scale. Large enough to send all the ladies aflutter,” Maps said.
“That’s right,” Benji replied. “Ladies love big IQs.”
Maps’ dad looked like he’d rather be on a plane ride to Eastern Europe with only screaming newborn babies in the seats around him.
“Your mother and I think it’s best for you to get a job instead of sitting around the house all day, lighting things on fire and sulking about Lane being away at baseball camp.”
Maps’ jaw dropped. He guffawed and threw his hands up in the air.
“Sulking!” he said, his eyebrows touching his hairline. “Maps Wilson does not sulk. He prowls and ponders, and perhaps peruses, but he does not sulk.”
“He also lies through his teeth!” shouted Benji from the couch.
Maps had not been sulking. He’d been living the free life while Lane was away at baseball camp for the summer. And how was baseball camp even a real thing? And who was crazy enough to sign up for it? Toss, catch, toss, catch. How much more could there be to it?
Maybe Maps and Lane had left things a little up in the air when Lane left, but that didn’t mean he was sulking. In fact, now that Lane hadn’t been around with those distracting teeth of his, Maps had got a lot done.
He’d conducted a few experiments involving the shaving of his armpits with his mom’s razor, which, for some reason, sent her into one of her frenzies. There was an experiment involving panty hose and garlic, one that resulted in Benji running from a rabid poodle, and his own personal favorite, the one with the electrical wires and the robot parrot toy that he named Frankenbird. That was the experiment that Maps’ dad referred to when he mentioned Maps setting things on fire. And it only happened twice, so he wasn’t really sure what all the fuss was about.
Regardless. He had been living the sweet, sweet bachelor life doing experiments and hanging out with his best friend, Benji. What more could a rakish rogue like Maps ask for?
Still, he had to admit that he’d stared longingly a time or two at the outside of Lane’s window. And, yeah, okay, maybe a time or two he’d taken the maps that Lane had given him off the wall and studied them for a few hours. And he’d admit that once or twice he’d worn Lane’s old baseball cap and fallen asleep in his bed wearing it and listening to Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
But that didn’t mean he missed Lane.
Sure, he missed the sound of Lane’s laugh, Lane’s big ‘ol gapped teeth, his pear-green
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