The Boy Most Likely To. Huntley Fitzpatrick

don’t want to be living above our garage for the rest of my life. Not too functional.”

      “Since when has that mattered?” I say, moving away from Patsy, who’s trying to yank down the top of my shirt, still scowling.

      “Uh, since I spent my twenty-second birthday at the hospital the night Dad was hit. I love our family, Al. I’d do anything for any of us, even you. But everything – my life – it can’t stop.”

      Everything has done anything but stop – as Joel should know. It’s accelerated to warp speed. Before that, this summer, for me, there were a few classes, a few hours of work at the hospital rehab center, maybe covering at the store, but other than that it was the beach and Brad and my favorite time of year. Sand and salt and ice-cream cones.

      Now it’s almost Labor Day and things – classes, sports, afterschool stuff – will be picking up – for everyone. Dad will be recovering for who knows how much longer, Mom pregnant, Jase’s football schedule, band for Andy and Duff – we’ll need to figure out more babysitting and my actual own life is –

      Deep breath. I lower my shoulders, which are practically grazing my earlobes.

      Joel tosses a 500-pack box of Slim Jims into the cart. I snatch them out and shove them back on the shelf. “Do you even know what’s in those?”

      “Is this about you not liking Gisele?”

      “I like Gisele fine,” I say.

      Can’t stand Gisele.

      Last time she came by, she had Joel pumping up her bicycle tires while she stood there looking all Parisian in a striped blue-and-white dress and a red scarf, fluttering her hands. But I know better than to say that. He’s moving in with her. That should be the kiss of death for both of them.

      “Sure you do. Brad’s no prize, you know.” Joel hands Patsy a chocolate chip cookie, which she immediately smooshes all over her face and into her hair, wiping the last of the chocolate across her pink shirt for good measure.

      “Brad’s on his way out,” I say, leafing through the school supply lists, mentally crossing things off. Harry – still needs twelve-count colored pencils, one “quality” pack of erasers, whatever that is. Duff – no, I am not getting materials for the solar system project yet – otherwise he’s set, Andy can get her own supplies, for God’s sake, she’s fourteen. “Too time-consuming.” As if to confirm this, my phone vibrates with what turns out to be another selfie of Brad at the gym.

      “Alice,” Joel says, giving yet another girl the once-over (Gisele, you are toast!). “That’s what I mean. You’re supposed to have your time consumed by that sort of thing.” He flicks the school supplies list. “Not this.”

      “That baby is too young for chocolate,” says a grouchy-looking woman who has her own baby in one of those weird sling things.

      “Nobody asked you,” I snap. Her brows draw together. Joel gives her his most charming smile, drawing me away by the elbow.

      “But we’re grateful for your advice. Who knew? Thank you.”

      She smoothes her shirt and actually smiles back at him.

       Honestly.

      Here’s Brad sitting on our steps when we get home, texting – probably me – with a frown. “Allykins,” he says, coming to his feet for a hug.

      Joel raises an eyebrow at me with a smirk, mutters, “I’m off to see Dad.” And leaves.

      Without carrying in any of the school supplies.

      In the kitchen, Jase, obviously fresh from practice, sweaty and with grass stains on his jersey, is plowing through a huge bowl of chicken and brown rice. Tim’s planted on our counter like he belongs there, scarfing down something with melted cheese all over it, hot enough to be steaming. Duff, Harry, and George are eating blueberry pie with melting vanilla ice cream. Dirty plates everywhere. The kitchen smells like boy and feet.

      And . . . Tim again.

      All relaxed and at home, wearing the swimsuit he was jogging in this morning and a Hodges Heroes baseball shirt that’s slightly too tight even on him. He grins at me, lopsided dimple and all.

      Hot mess inside and out, that boy, probably hasn’t even showered. Certainly hasn’t shaved carefully, since he’s got a little cut near his chin. Yet another person who needs a mother, a maid, a manager –

      I set Patsy down, grab her pink princess sippy cup, slosh milk into it, screw on the top, shove it at him. “Slow down. I’m not driving you to the hospital when you get second-degree tongue burn.”

      Tim takes a defiant bite of scalding cheese. Another. Then slowly raises the sippy cup, salutes me, and, watching me with serious eyes, gulps it down.

      “Pie,” Brad says happily. “I love pie.” He pulls out a chair, flips it around, straddles it, and says, “Cut my slice extra-big, Allosaurus.”

      George cocks his head, wrinkling his nose. “Allosauruses were some of the biggest dinosaurs of all. They ate Stegosauruses. Alice isn’t very big. And she’s a vegetarian.”

      Brad can get his own damn pie.

      “Get your own damn pie,” Tim mumbles between more mouthfuls of volcanic cheese.

      “Hey, Alice, Joel’s completely out of the garage – he’s not coming back for anything, right?” Jase slosh-pours himself a huge glass of milk, drains half of it, refills. Finally got groceries, and at this rate they’ll be gone tomorrow.

      “Thank God, yes,” I say.

      “Great,” he says. “I told Tim he could take it. He moved in last night.”

      “No escaping me now,” Tim tells me cheerfully.

      “Boy, Alice. Your face is really red,” George says after a second.

      “Al –” Jase starts, then falters.

      Tim takes one look at me and jolts off the counter, hand outstretched. “Whoa. What – hell – what did I – ?”

      I hold up my own hand. “Don’t say another word . . . There are groceries and school supplies in the Bug. Deal with them.” Then I practically drag Brad out by his hair.

      “I screwed up again, yeah?” I say to Jase as the door slams behind Alice and ol’ Brad.

      Jase rubs a hand down his face. “I’ll talk to her.”

      “What, was she, like, going to move in there – with that guy? ‘I love pie’? What is he, five?”

      “Alice never said a thing to me, Tim.” Jase picks up a forkful of chicken, puts it back down.

      George says philosophically, “Pie is good. Except the kind with four and twenty blackbirds baked in it, prolly. You know, like, sing a songofsixpence, pockafullarye?” he warbles in this high voice that sort of slays me. “That sounds yuck.”

      “No way would they sing when they opened it,” Harry says, with his mouth full of crust. “Because they’d all be cooked and dead.”

      George’s eyes get big. “Would they?” he asks, looking back and forth between me and Jase. “Cooked?”

      “No way,” Jase says firmly, “because . . .” He hesitates a second, and George’s eyes start filling.

      “Because, dude, it wouldn’t be an eating pie,” I say. “It would be a performance pie. Like something to make the king laugh because he was all stressed from –”

      “Counting out his money,” Jase finishes, nodding, all confident. “Right, G-man? Isn’t that what he was doing – ‘in the countinghouse, counting out his money’?”

      George nods, soberly. “He’d be all upset like Daddy