Page 62 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
My conscience gives me another nudge. I push back. This isn’t the same. The worst-case scenario for me isn’t death, but a life that doesn’t look much like living. And why would I burden more people with that than necessary?
Ian’s mom spared them for as long as she could. I still see Ian’s side of it, the unfairness, but he’d said it himself: What could he have done?
I consider the dimensions of the picture. Probably a four by six. A standard print size. Easy to frame. I slide it into the mailer, easing it over the slick surface of the plaque, so it doesn’t get bent.
Not for the pro shop. This will be just for him.
23
“KNOCK, KNOCK,” HEATHER SAYS,stepping into the house early Saturday evening.
“Careful,” I warn her, and she freezes with both feet on the doormat. “The floors are slick. We got the ratio wrong on the wood cleaner, and it’s like an ice rink in here. Go barefoot if you want to remain upright.”
“Or just embrace it!” Mark calls from the hallway. Heather and I turn toward his voice, and a moment later, he glides down the hallway on his belly, penguin-style.
“Nice distance,” I say. He stands up, keeping a hand on the wall for balance.
“The guys gave me a push. This is actually a really good time,” he says. “Human curling.” He turns and shuffles back up the hallway on socked feet.
“And you’re encouraging this?” Heather asks.
“The guys have already exceeded their entertainment budget for the month and were desperate for things to do. Outside oftheir multiple video game systems, the finest television and sound system setup this side of an actual theater—”
“You have the TV tonight!” Grant reminds me from the depths of the hallway.
“Only from eight to ten,” I holler back. “Y’all have the entire internet at your disposal.”
“We’re bored of the internet!” Diego counters.
Heather laughs. “I’m not sure if that’s great for society or terrible,” she says, and toes off her sneakers. She eyes the shiny hardwood, then braves a step off the mat. Immediately, she drops into a crouch to keep her balance. “Good God, what did you use? Motor oil?”
“Might as well have. The floors look great, though.”
“Until they’re covered in my blood. Yeesh.” Still crouching, she shuffles toward the couch and grabs hold of the arm, using it to tow herself to safety. She takes a seat, craning her neck toward the hallway as she settles. “How long have they been doing this?”
“About twenty minutes. It was Mark’s idea. I attribute it to his improv background. Big ‘yes, and’ energy.”
As we watch, fingers curl around the wall at the mouth of the hallway. A moment later, Diego slingshots himself into the living room, slowing to a stop before the couch. He flops onto his back. “I’m bored again. What else can we do?”
“For free,”I remind him.
“Fine. What else can we dofor free?” he asks. The other guys pad into the living room, Grant employing a skating motion to glide to the couch.
“Might I propose…” Mark plants both feet on the wall at themouth of the hallway, then launches himself into the living room, maintaining a casual side-lying posture as he eases to a stop. “Silence and Sabotage.”
I catch Heather’s eye, and she shakes her head. He’s in auteur mode.
“It’s a variation on tag. The person who is It is blindfolded. And everyone else is confined to a certain area, say”—he gestures around himself—“the living room. Whoever’s It has to feel around for the others, who have to remain silent or otherwise keep who’s It from figuring out where they are. Players may sabotage others by making noise, but do so at their own peril; create enough noise to draw the attention of It, and you may be found instead.”
“Did you come up with this?” Heather asks.
“Absolutely not. I saw it on Instagram. But I did come up with the name.”
“Just now?” I ask.
“Justnow.”
“Very cool,” Diego marvels. “Silence and Sabotageis a great name.”
