Page 8 of Everywhere You Look

I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets. In all honesty, it’s not like I had a ton to move, anyway. My boxes of knick-knacks and the new mattress I picked up this morning made up the bulk of it. It would have been a waste to hire someone for a few things that didn’t even make a dent in the space of the moving truck’s bed.

“I’m simple, Luke. You know that. You should be happy that I didn’t carry all my stuff in a bindle over my shoulder. And it’s all done, except for these three boxes. I figured since it’s all stuff for the shared space, I should wait for your direction on where to put things,” I say. But what I mean is—you’ve been living here for weeks and haven’t changed a thing. I’m starting to think you’re going to leave this house as a shrine to your deceased sister and I’m afraid that if I get too comfortable, we’ll both break down.

“Alright, cool. Let’s try to wrangle the circusmonkeys into the kitchen and get some protein in their bellies to help soak up the sugar. I’ll help you finish up if they ever settle down—oof,” Luke lets out a rush of air just as Mellie launches herself at his legs, her fist making perfect—and by the looks of it, painful–contact with his groin. He doubles over, and I feel my own balls shrivel up in sympathy.

“Uncle Lukey, let’s play ballerina!” Mellie squeals.

“Uncle Lukey doesn’t want to play ballerina,” Luke wheezes. From her side profile, I can see her lower lip begin to tremble and sense the incoming sugar-crash-out. This is it, my first opportunity to show Luke that I can be useful in this situation. That I’m not just here for show, but that I am a valuable asset.

Or, at least, I can learn to be a valuable asset. And I can show off all the skills I learned from years of watching my sister’s recitals and the occasional ballet classes the Crushers made us take for agility and coordination.

“I’ll play ballerina, Mellie. Here, sauté,” I say, crouching down and opening my arms wide.

“Huh?” Mellie says, scrunching up her nose in confusion. I guess they haven’t gone over the terms for all the moves in the Tutus for Tots class yet.

“Run and jump, I’ll catch you,” I say, and thatgets Mellie going. She ricochets off of Luke’s calf and sprints straight into my outstretched arms. I catch her easily, lifting her over my head, Johnny and Baby style. Pushing up to the closest I can get to a point in my Jordan’s, I do my best Danseur impression and tippy toe us around in a circle while Mellie squeals with laughter.

“I want to play ballerina, too!” Lemmie shrieks, and I shift around so that Mellie is down on my hip and my other hand is free to catch Lemmie as she launches herself at me.

“Hel—heck yeah, Lem. Let’s turn this Pas de Deux into a Pas de Trois.” I continue my spins, kicking out my legs in something resembling an arabesque while my very tight muscles scream in protest. But instead of my leg going out straight behind me, it sort of hangs in a bend like a flamingo. Mellie and Lemmie don’t seem to mind, though. They giggle and pose and bring their arms over their heads while I dance around the living room, their laughter like a balm to whatever weird achiness I was feeling at the constant reminders of my past.

“Uncle Lukey, look at us! We’re ballerinas!” Lemmie cackles as we spin. I try not to think about the motion sickness I’m giving myself, especially when I catch the look on Luke’s face out of the corner of my eye. It’s soft, a mixture of grief and gratitudethat I’ve become well acquainted with in the two weeks since Gigi passed. I can feel the myriads of emotions I know are swirling in his mind. Thoughts like “I wish Gigi were here to see this,” and “damn, I’m glad Dean is here. What would I do without him?”

Alright, maybe I’m projecting that last one, but I do think Luke is happy to have me here. And I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d want to be.

Content as I may feel right now, a rush of gratitude washes through me when the doorbell rings. I’ll play ballerinas all day, but I’m this close to giving myself motion sickness from all the spinning.

“C’mon, mis pollitas. Let’s go wash our hands while Uncle Lukey gets the pizza,” I say, winking at Luke and feeling a little unsteady on my feet.

“What’s a poop-yee-top?” Mellie asks, and I lovingly roll my eyes.

“It’s poh-yee-tah, mi amor. It’s a Spanish word. I’ll teach you more over dinner.”

“Pizza, Chinese, and Argentinian. It’s international night at the Cannon-McKenna’s!” Luke calls after us as I kick the bottom of the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the living room.

The Cannon-McKenna’s.

Damn. I shouldn’t like the sound of that so much.

4

FULLER HOUSE

Dean

Dinner goes down without a hitch, and bath time is an absolute breeze. This whole ‘overnight guardian of three kids’ thing is so easy.

Ha. Can you imagine?

As it turns out, moving in with your best friend and three kids and turning a full house into an even fuller house is ten times more chaotic than living on your own. Who would’ve thought?

In reality, the entire night is a shit show of epic proportions. Ollie screamed throughout dinner, refusing her pureed yams (can’t blame her there), the eggs Luke scrambled (again, can’t blame her. I’ve never been an egg guy), and the vanilla yogurt I triedto feed her. (That one threw me. Who doesn’t like vanilla yogurt?) According to Luke, the poor thing is teething, and we can expect that kind of behavior every time a sharp edge of calcium rips through her tender baby flesh.

While poor Ollie screamed and starved, the twins refused to eat any of the pizza I ordered. Apparently, the basil and oregano sprinkled on top of the cheese and tomato sauce by the pizza parlor is a great affront to Lemmie and Mellie’s culture. They had no issue feasting on sweet and sour chicken (without the sauce, so essentially just chicken nuggets), and to my surprise, they were big fans of the egg rolls. However, an all-out brawl nearly broke out over the last fried delicacy that could only be solved by Luke cutting the egg roll in half (and weighing it with a food scale to assure each sister got an even amount when they protested the split). Even then, I had to bribe the girls with fifty bucks each to stop the tears.

I flushed another hundred down the drain in the bathroom an hour later when Lemmie and Mellie stomped their feet in protest, refusing to let Luke or me wash the calcified cotton candy out of their blonde hair until I paid up. By the time all the kids were bathed, I was flush out of cash.

Between the swear jar and the bribes to get the kids to comply with simple tasks, I’m going to haveto get the girls their own tap-to-pay card reader. I don’t have time to run to an ATM every time I want them to do something, or when I inevitably curse under my breath because they refuse.

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