Page 9 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“Ow! What the fuck? Not that close,” I say.

“Oh, come on, you failed to negotiate any rules before you shot me in the gut in my own bed.”

I squint to find Key twirling his gun in victory, wiping the paint from his stomach, andsmiling. Mission accomplished.

“What are these anyway?” he asks.

“Gotcha paintball guns. They’re new. Had to beat up a ten-year-old for these.”

He laughs, and I snatch the fallen gun off the floor and set it on the counter. “Wicked. So what do I win then?”

My smile drops. “Awesome new toy guns that shoot paint isn’t enough?”

He crosses his arms.

“Okay, fine. Winner chooses the loser’s punishment.”

Key scratches the tip of the plastic gun to his forehead. “Hmm . . . I think,” he says with a devilish smirk, “you’re on laundry duty.”

I blink. “Laundry?”

“Yup,” he says, slapping me hard on the shoulder. “Make sure to do my sheets first. Need to get rid of your rank drool stains, along with paint splatter and any other bodily fluids.”

I press my tongue into my bottom lip and fist my hands at my hips. “Fine. Fine. Laundry it is.”

I’m slinking away, head hung low, when Key calls after me. “Hey, Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure to separate my colors.”

He smiles at me, and I know what he’s really saying:thanks for the distraction, however momentary it was.

After I’ve changed and collected every piece of dirty laundry lying around the house, I’m up to my knees in clothes, towels, and bedsheets, facing our washer and dryer. There’s a piece of paper taped to the top of the washer with instructions for different cycle instructions from when Becks lived here. Funny how neither of us has had the heart to remove it. That being said, I disregard her suggestions for whites and just shove enough clothing into the washer that will fit, topping it off with a scoop of detergent.

The lid snaps shut with aclang, and I turn the dial to start it. But instead of the expected rushing water, there’s a stuttering bang and a loud gurgle, and then I’m being sprayed in the face by a freezing jet of water.

“What the fuck!” I cry, reaching forward to turn off the valves through what’s now a steady geyser exploding from the hose behind the washing machine. Trying to grip the handles while simultaneously shielding my eyes from the onslaught, I twist and twist until the spray finally subsides.

There’s a flurry of footsteps amidst the drips on the tile when Key bursts into the room.

“What happened?”

“What the hell do you think happened, genius?” I mutter, blinking the water from my eyes and gesturing to my soaked shirt. “Water line burst.”

Key sucks his teeth. “Damn.”

I sigh, looking around at the soaked laundry piles on the floor. “I’m uh . . . I’m going to try to get this cleaned up. Can you call a plumber?”

“Sure, man. Yeah,” he says, disappearing out the door.

“Just great,” I say to no one in particular.

When Key returns fifteen minutes later, his expression is grim. “Good news. I got hold of a plumber,” he says.

“Why does it look like that is accompanied by bad news?”

“He can’t get here for another week.”

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