Page 50 of Story of My Life
“But I didn’t do anything. I mean, I did drive into the sign, and I feel terrible about it.” The dirty looks I was getting increased tenfold.
“Wednesday night at seven. Justice for Goose,” Emilie said, pointing a squat finger in my face before dragging her husband away.
Garland raised his iPad for another picture, but Cam’s brother intervened. “Go sit down before I toss your journalistic integrity in the lake,” he said.
“You can’t silence the press,” Garland insisted.
“You’re not the press. You post bullshit gossip on a neighborhood website,” Cam said.
“What just happened?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I think we narrowly avoided some kind of mob,” Zoey observed.
“Congratulations, councilwoman. You just got invited to your first town meeting,” Cam said dryly.
Wesley reappeared through the dwindling crowd with a new basket of breadsticks and a kid who looked exactly like him but with longer, curlier hair and a cook’s uniform. “Hey, Uncle Cam. Uncle Levi,” Wesley and the lookalike said in unison.
“Is everyone here related?” Zoey wondered.
“Hey,” Cam greeted the boys.
“Aww, man. Did I miss the fight?” the lookalike asked.
Levi reached out and ruffled his curls. “Why? You looking to throw some punches, Har?”
The boy’s grin was identical to Wesley’s. If I hadn’t been so traumatized I would have been busy pondering the trail of broken hearts the two boys and their uncles had left all over town.
“This is my twin, Harrison,” Wesley said in an aside to me and Zoey.
“Nice to meet you,” I said weakly, still processing the turmoil of the last five minutes.
Cam turned back to me. “I’m gonna suggest you get your food to go.”
12
A PANCAKE TO THE FACE
CAMPBELL
IntrepidReporterGuy:
Emergency town meeting called after eagle murderer starts bar fight at Angelo’s.
I openedthe back door of my sister’s house without knocking. No one would have heard me anyway over the noise. Bacon sizzled, dogs barked, adults demanded more coffee.
It was a typical Bishop Breakfast. Too early, too loud, and far too many people crammed into too small a space.
I sat on the built-in bench and pried off my work boots. Melvin, the four-year-old Saint Bernard–Bernese mountain dog mix, lumbered into the room, his nails clicking on the hexagonal tile I’d helped install before he was born. He shoved his big head into my lap and grumbled a welcome.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, scruffing his ears back and forth before giving him a thump on the flank.
A split second later, my parents’ beagle, Bentley, charged into the mudroom, demanding his fair share of attention.
“That you, Cam?” my mother called from the kitchen.
Nothing got by Pepper “Pep” Bishop. Especially not when it came to her children. At fifteen, I’d once attempted to sneak out of the house to go to a friend’s. She’d beaten me there in the car and stood waiting for me on the sidewalk in her flannel pj’s. “Get your grounded ass in the car, Campbell Bishop,” she’d said. I wondered then if she knew that even when I was in trouble, her calling me a Bishop lit up something small and bright in my chest.
She always told everyone she’d never regretted her decision to take us on despite all the moments we’d given her to consider such things.
