“How are you doing?” I ask Mason as we sit in the parking lot. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Probably not,” Mason answers, “but there’s not a lot I can do about that.”
That championship fight against Ben Jones was the last match Mason ever fought. Maybe someday that’ll change, but for now, he’s much too busy focusing on school.
After that fight, I thought he was going to be devastated, but to him, it just seemed like the way that part of his life had to end.
Now, we’re sitting outside the county jail, waiting.
Testifying against mom and dad turned out not to be necessary. When the police started going through all the paperwork mom and dad were fortunately too dumb to throw away, the real villain became clear: Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq.
My parents are certainly not innocent, but when their former lawyer was confronted with the pages of handwritten notes my father had taken about every topic he wasn’t actually supposed to write down, he confessed to everything. The fraud had been his idea, as had every single one of my
parents other schemes over the years.
They tried to tell the press they didn’t know what they were doing was illegal because it came from their lawyer, but nobody, least of all me, bought it.
On the bright side, though, the two of them did get a reduced sentence when it was explained to them at great length that these crimes weren’t actually their own idea.
“Here we go,” Mason says, and we get out of the car.
“What up, Brossels?” Chris calls when he spots us as he’s coming out of the jail.
“Brossels?” Mason calls back.
“You know,” Chris says, “like the country in Belgium.”
“I think your brother might be an idiot,” I murmur to Mason.
Mason smiles and laughs, saying, “I know it for a fact.”
Chris finally gets to the car and gives Mason a hug. “Thanks for coming to pick me up, man.”
“I’ve had some time to forget about all the crap you’ve pulled over the years,” Mason says, playfully shoving his brother. “Give it an hour and I’ll probably be trying to get you back in here.”
“Let’s not do that,” Chris says. “Hello there, gorgeous,” he says, turning to me. “I see you’re sticking with the less impressive Ellis, huh?”
“Chris, I’m sure we’d have a lot of fun, but we’re just different people,” I tell him. “I like a good cry-movie and you’re more into selling people bridges in Arizona.”
“You’re right,” Chris says, giving me a hug. “It would never work out, would it?”
“You still staying with us for a while?” Mason asks.
“Us?” Chris says and turns to me with high eyebrows, wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “Oh my dear lord, you’re pregnant!” he exclaims and he’s now—what is he doing? He’s putting his ear against my belly button.
“You’re a weird guy, Chris,” I tell him. “I thought Mason told you we’re living together now?”
“That’s right,” Chris says, though he doesn’t move.
“Chris?” I ask.
“Yeah?” he answers, still listening to my abdomen—for what, exactly, I haven’t the slightest.
“Could you maybe get off of me now?” I ask.
“Sure thing,” he says, getting to his feet. “Hey, would you two mind if we stop by the gas station for a minute? I could use a cigarette like you wouldn’t even believe, bro.”
“Got any money on you?” Mason asks.