The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records Read Free Page B

me.” She looked over her shoulder at Gertrude. “Run along, now. No point in being late for work.”
    Lee could see the motherly apprehension on Gertrude’s face as she took his chin in her fingers and gazed into his eyes as if she could read something there. Lee didn’t know much about telepathy, but just in case, he imagined his eyes were computer screens with the words I’ LL BE FINE !! written across them in bold. Lee’s mom must have picked up the message. Suddenly satisfied, she squeezed Lee’s toe on her way out, and she and Agnes left the room, discussing such details as whether or not the ginger ale supplies would hold out until morning, and whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to persuade him to take a Gravol.

CHAPTER THREE
    Rhonda took two more cookies from the plate beside Lee’s bed and fed one to Santiago. Lee could see she was enjoying this. He knew that she knew that the sign on his bedroom door, STAY OUT OR DIE !! was specifically meant for her. He also knew how much that bugged her. And now, here she was making a slow tour of his room with a smug smile while he watched, helpless, from his bed. There was nothing he could do about it. He was too sick to get up and kick her out. Besides, she had more or less helped him out this afternoon—although he guessed that that would have its own drawbacks. Tomorrow she’d be announcing to the world that she’d saved Daddy McGillicuddy’s life.
    â€œThis as nice as your bedroom at Gertie’s?” she asked. He’d made sure she’d never poked her nose inside that bedroom, either.
    Lee shrugged his shoulders. “’Bout the same.”
    Rhonda pointed to a framed photograph on the wall. “That your decreased father or sumthin’?”
    Lee sat upright. “The word is deceased , ya blockhead!” he said, “and no , that is not my dad. It just happens to be the one and only Albert Einstein, the Father of Relativity. Cheeeez!”
    Rhonda shrugged. “Least he’s some body’s father.” She ambled over to his desk and took a leisurely look at the stuff heaped there: three old Eatmore wrappers, a dirty hacky sack that looked like it had landed in Santiago’s dinner bowl (or worse), and a half-eaten sandwich of peanut butter and … something red.
    â€œPeanut butter and ketchup ?” she said, faking a gag.
    Lee rolled on his side, clutching his stomach. “Come on,” he groaned, “give a guy a break.” She picked up a crumpled English essay, flattened it out, and looked at the mark on the last page—C-minus. She re-scrunched it and picked up something else. “What was his name, anyhow?”
    â€œWhose?”
    â€œYour decreased … I mean, your dead dad.”
    Long pause. “Frankin,” said Lee wearily—he knew what was coming.
    â€œFrankin?” She let out a hoot. “As in, like … Frankin stein?”
    â€œNo,” said an impatient Lee, “Frankin is short for frankin cense … you know, gold, frankincense, and myrrh? He was born on Christmas Day—what can I say?” Lee rolled over so his back faced Rhonda. “Mostly people just called him Frankinstein, though.” He didn’t bother spilling the fact that his own nickname for his dad had been Frankindad.
    â€œYeah, okay, so what’s this?” said Rhonda, grown tired of the subject. She held up a small wooden plaque with a smooth black stone glued to its center.
    â€œBlack Cat,” mumbled Lee into his pillow.
    â€œThat some kind of precious stone, or what?”
    â€œBlack Cat bub ble gum, bozo,” he said. “When I was nine, I chewed that piece eight hours every day for exactly one year.” Lee rolled onto his back and rubbed his stomach in a slow circular motion the way his mother used to when he was a kid with a bellyache. He could suddenly taste Black Cat in the back of his throat, and it made him