Page 118 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“Perfect!” the photographer says.
Riles blinks rapidly, her face tense and strained as if she can smell something unpleasant. I sniff, but all I can smell is her perfume.
Her nose wrinkles.
My eye twitches.
A snorty crackling sound bursts from her throat, much like a pinched balloon releasing air.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, jerking back.
She clutches her waist and bursts out with the laughter she’d been desperately trying to contain. “You look constipated.”
“I feel constipated,” I say through gritted teeth, “leaning over like this. This pose is unnatural.”
Fanning her face, she wipes tears from her eyes and puffs out a breath. “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s try that again.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yes!”
“Then stop laughing so we can get it done already.”
“I’m sorry! I just… I can’t keep a straight face. We must look ridiculous.”
“You think?”
Glancing down at her once more, I attempt to remain poker-faced while her mouth spasms, her brow bunching as she fights her pending hysterics.
“Don’t laugh,” I whisper, trying not to move my lips.
Her balloon-like screech slowly bubbles in her throat again.
“Don’t.”
It grows louder and higher, and I can’t hold my composure any longer, both of us bursting into laughter, Riles nearly falling off her seat.
“I can’t,” she says, gasping for air.
Bracing her in my arms, I hold onto her as she cackles like a hyena. “Clearly.”
“I’m sorry.”
The photographer waves his camera at us. “Try dipping her.”
In what… ketchup?
I frown at him. “She’s not a french fry.”
“Dip,” he insists. “Like a dance.” Nodding, pleased with his recommendation, he tries to demonstrate by throwing his head back a few times, twitching like a zombie.
I stare at him in disbelief and murmur, “What dance does he want us to do… ‘Thriller’?”
“No.” Riles giggles. “One of those romantic dips you see on movie posters.”
“Why?”
“Why not, I guess.” She guides my arm behind her back and clasps my other hand. “Are you ready?”
