Who We Are (The Seafare Chronicles 2)

And while this whole thing was happening, while my little Marlon Brando was giving the performance of his career, that vein in my forehead grew bigger and bigger, and my jaw began to ache as I ground my teeth. My eyes had never left him, not once since he’d entered the room. I knew he’d felt them on him the moment he’d walked in. I knew he’d heard Otter doing his best impersonation of what it must sound like to be murdered by laughter. And through it all, Tyson McKenna’s face remained bland and passive, as if he were unaware of his surroundings.

I cleared my throat.

He flipped a page in the newspaper.

I cleared my throat again, louder this time, and it came out like a growl.

He took a bite of oatmeal, hissing a little bit as if it was still too hot.

I cleared my throat yet again, not so much a growl as me sounding like I was trying to start a lawn mower unsuccessfully.

He went back to the newspaper and said, “Gee, Papa Bear, I sure hope you’re not coming down with something. Especially since it’s so close to the Big Move (It’s About Time).”

“Kid,” I said through gritted teeth.

Otter looked back and forth between us, that crooked grin on full display, the gold and green in his eyes shining brightly. I made a mental note to kill him later.

“Oh, look,” Ty said, “Newt Gingrich made himself appear crazy again.

Bless his heart. You’d think he’d know by now that he’s better seen and not heard.” He paused. “Well, maybe not even seen.”

“Kid,” I said louder, sharper.

“And the weather! Well, I never! The extended seven-day forecast says there’s a 40 percent chance of rain every day? I shall have to remember to take an umbrella when I have my engagements.”

“Tyson James McKenna!” I shouted.

He calmly folded the newspaper and laid it down on the table before folding his hands in front of him and finally looking at me. “I’ve noticed,”

he said seriously, “that when people don’t have anything meaningful to add to a conversation, they usually just raise their volume.”

I didn’t get it, so I dismissed it. I figured he was insulting me somehow.

“What… in all that’s holy… are you wearing?” I ground out. Quite loudly.

His eyes widened in surprise as he looked down then back up at me. He glanced at Otter as well, a look of gentle confusion on his face. I could hear Otter starting to lose it again, and I knew I needed to end this now.

“What are you talking about, Bear?” the Kid asked me. “I’m wearing clothes. It’s a thing people do. It’s kind of a societal norm.” He paused for a moment, his face scrunching up. “Well, except for nudists. Did you know that they have resorts where people can go and just walk around naked?

CNN did this in-depth investigative report on one, something about how the main nudist dude was embezzling from other nudists or whatever, and for the life of me, I just can’t see the appeal in that, because it seems like it’d be kind of gross to have to stare at people’s dangly parts all day while you’re playing shuffleboard and sipping mimosas. I mean, what if you wanted to eat a veggie corn dog? The visual alone must be enough to make you ill.

And don’t get me started on other phallic foods. You’d think Mother Nature was a nympho with how many foods are shaped like penises.”

“Tyson—” I said again, starting to stand, knowing if I didn’t end this now, he’d likely go on all day.

“What are swingers?” he asked, cutting me off.

Otter broke and started hyperventilating. Big help, that one.

“Are you out of your mind?” I shouted at the Kid.

“It’s true!” he shouted back. “There are so many foods that look like dongs!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

“Then spit it out! I’m not psychic, Bear!”

“You can’t wear that shirt!”