Brett
I didn’t ask Cassie how meeting Derek’s parents went.
That probably deserved some kind of medal.
Instead, I spent Saturday afternoon at the youth center helping Marcus build a model volcano that looked more like a diseased mountain and listening to him explain, in great detail, why my contribution was ruining his grade.
“You put too much glue there.”
“You told me to put glue there.”
“Not that much.”
“You’re incredibly bossy for someone who can’t drive.”
Marcus gave me a look. “You’re the adult.”
“That’s debatable.”
Rachel laughed from the next table. “He’s got you there, Brett.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“The child’s.”
“Of course.”
Marcus shoved the paint toward me. “Do the bottom.”
I reached for the brush.
“No, not like that.”
I dropped it.
“You do it.”
He grinned.
