spend some time with that grizzly of hers. I’ll suggest it to her.”
Stevie stood her ground. “You want her to leave that house? That’s your plan?”
“Do you have a better one?”
“Anything’s better!”
“Awww, now, Stevie. Don’t be unfair. You know I only want the best for your sister.”
“Since when?”
“Come on,” the man pushed. “We’ll tell her together.”
“We’re not telling her anything. You’re just leaving. I’ve got a lot of work to do and all of you are nothing but distractions that I’m beginning to loathe.”
“Oh, so it’s you that wants us out, is it?” He smiled and even though Zé saw nothing that actually said, “Hello there, I can change into some kind of large jungle animal,” the smile did scream “predator!”
“Well,” her uncle went on with that grin spreading across his face, “that changes everything, doesn’t it?”
Stevie’s left eye twitched at his words. Zé could see it from across the room. It was so dramatic even he felt the need to inject himself into the situation, but he never had the chance.
“What’s up?” Max asked as she walked into the room. She’d changed into long, blue basketball shorts, a matching tank top, and blue high-top Converse. Her purple hair was in two ponytails and she had a red, white, and blue basketball tucked under her arm. This placement was necessary so that she could hold a large jar of honey in one hand and spoon said honey into her mouth with the other.
Christ. Who wanted to eat that much honey? She ate it like she was eating ice cream.
“Just havin’ a little chat with your baby sister here before I go and get me a nice cuppa.”
“Nice cuppa what?”
The Scots—or Irish . . . whatever—all looked at her, their lips curled in disgust. Were they not clear on where they were? They were in America! Where one has cups of coffee! The only tea drinkers around these parts were those gentrifying bastards in Brooklyn. Not real Americans!
“I’m telling them to leave,” Stevie said, finally lowering her arms so she could cross them and tuck her hands under her pits. It was a weird visual. She seemed a little old to pose like that. Even when annoyed.
“Why?” Max asked. “We love having them here.”
“See?” the uncle said, grinning again.
“Yeah. They can stay as long as they want. Right, guys?”
The men gave a little cheer at Max’s words and she handed over her jar of honey. One of the younger males took it and eagerly scooped spoonfuls into his mouth. Why? Honey was an additive! A condiment! It was not to be used as a self-contained treat!
With her hands free, Max began to dribble the basketball. She didn’t do a fast dribble. Just one annoying bounce at a time. It was . . . methodical, the way she dribbled that ball. One bounce. Two beats. Another bounce. Two beats. Another bounce. Two beats. Yeah. It was methodical. Or, at least, that’s how it felt. It felt methodical . . . almost planned. Which was ridiculous, right? He’d been around a lot of basketball players in his old neighborhood and high school, still played some pickup games when he spent a weekend with his grandfather, and if there was a ball in someone’s hand, they always bounced it repeatedly, as fast as they could because it was a ball in their hands. They didn’t even think about it. They just did it. No matter how much bouncing that ball annoyed Zé.
And God, did it annoy Zé. Then and now!
It was a habit he found so annoying that on more than one occasion, he had snatched a ball from some bouncing offender, only to slam it back into the man’s face. Why? Because he needed to learn! Sadly, his grandfather had been forced several times over the years to explain to some pissed-off neighbor from down the block that “it was a total accident. You know what a fumble-fingers my grandson is. Aren’t you, idiot?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a fumble-fingers.”
The memory almost made him smile except that the bouncing was really starting to irritate him. It was, he also quickly noticed, annoying Stevie.
He could tell when she carefully placed her middle and forefingers against both sides of her head, making small circles at the temples, before asking, “So you’re not leaving?”
“Oh, we’ll leave. Eventually. You know, still trying to find out who blew us up. That’s kind of our priority right now.”
“We know who blew you up. It was the half-sisters who hate you!”
“Who can