Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(103)

“I’ll second that,” Matt says, gesturing with my replica Gladius from the beanbag chair on the floor.

Coop nods. “Consider it done, then.”

Just then the bedroom door bursts open. “You dweeblets just about done? I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“You’re supposed to knock, Cathy,” I remind her for, like, the thousandth time. “When the sock’s on the door? We agreed on that, remember?”

“Yeah, and you’re supposed to pony up twenty-five bucks a month in rent. We agreed on that too, remember?”

“You agreed on it. When you stole fifty bucks from us!” I cry. “I still have to pay Uncle Doug back all of his money and the cost of the amp we busted at the Battle of the Bands. You’ll get your money right after he gets his. Not.”

Cathy stalks over to her side of the room and yanks open her closet. “Any person with half a brain knows they should pay their rent before paying their creditors. Otherwise you might come home one day to find you and all your shit evicted.”

I’m just about to respond when there’s a loud elongated braying blare — like a giant wheezing clown’s horn — coming from outside.

“What the hell was that?” Coop asks, setting the computer aside.

“I have no idea,” I say.

It sounds again. A whiny fog horn that’s annoyed it’s being made to blow.

Matt hoists himself from the beanbag. “I believe this bears investigating.”

The three of us head out into the hallway. “Later, masturbators,” Cathy calls after us and slams the door. Obviously she lacks our inquisitive natures.

Me, Coop, and Matt make our way downstairs and out the front door.

And there, in our driveway, is a hunormous rickety old RV painted like the Milky Way with the words HAVE YOU BEEN SAVED? BETTER MAKE IT QUICK! THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH! printed across the top.

“Howdy ho!” Uncle Doug calls from the driver’s seat, wafting a zeppelin-size doobie out the window.

The three of us approach the RV cautiously.

“So,” Uncle Doug calls from his perch, “what do you think?”

“It’s big,” I say.

“Damn straight.” Uncle Doug toasts this sentiment with his joint. “It’s a thirty-foot Class C model. She’s got about fifteen years on her, but she’s not in bad shape. Won her from some disgruntled Holy Roller in a sperm-count contest. Turns out all that bunk about the happy leaf affecting your spermatozoa is all a big myth.” He takes a long drag on his hand cannon.

“Why’d you bring it here?” I ask, glad that Mom and Dad are at the pediatrician with Gracie and aren’t around to see this monstrosity parked in their driveway.

“Why do you think?” Uncle Doug opens his door and climbs down. He gestures at the camper like a game-show hostess. “It’s your new bedroom, Seanie.”

I stare at Uncle Doug. My eyes strain from their sockets. “Are you serious?”

“As syphilis, my friend.” He grins.

“Score,” Coop says. “Your own place, dawg. How dope is that?”

Uncle Doug takes a generous drag on his joint. “I suppose you’ll have to arm-wrestle your sister for it, though. Either way, you guys’ll have your privacy back. Consider it Uncle Doug’s own personal prize package for having the fortitude to finish your film.” He lunges for me and grabs me in a headlock, giving me a skull-bruising noogie. “Of course, this doesn’t excuse you from your carpet-mascot duties, Seanie. I’m still expecting payback for my outlay of cash, my friend.”

“Okay, okay!” I shout.

“What are the magic words?”

“Uncle Doug! Uncle Doug! Uncle Doug!”

“That’s my boy.”

He releases me and I stumble backward, rubbing my scalp.

Uncle Doug nods toward the RV. “Go on. Take a look inside. I’m gonna go bury an elf in your john. I’d do it in the RV, but the commode’s not exactly reliable at the moment.”

Uncle Doug makes his way to the house as Matt, Coop, and me head into the motor home.

“This is spectac,” Coop says when we get inside. “Your own kitchen. Bathroom. And lounge area.” He flops down on the beige couch, props his feet up on the cushions, and laces his fingers behind his head. “You and Nessa are gonna have some good times in here.”

“That’s assuming, of course”— Matt turns the kitchen faucet on and off —“that you can beat your sister in an arm-wrestle.”

“Pfff,” I lip fart. “There isn’t going to be any arm-wrestling. This puppy’s mine.” I take a seat at the steering wheel and pretend I’m driving. “I’m staking my claim.”

“Is that so?”

I whip around to see Cathy, decked out in her Wal-Mart uniform, stepping up into the RV.

“Uncle Doug brought it over for me,” I argue. “So take a hike.”

“Tsk, tsk, little brother,” Cathy says. “Being older than you, I should get the best room.” She starts to stroll around, running her fingers over the counters.

“You’re going to get your old room back,” I say. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

Behind Cathy’s back, I can see Coop and Matt whispering conspiratorially. Then Coop readjusts his position on the couch, looking like he can’t quite get comfortable.