Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(47)

“It’s going to be fine.” Uncle Doug continues to back away. “I wouldn’t put you in any actual danger. I need you out here. This kind of thing pays real dividends in increased store traffic. Besides, the last attack made the evening news. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.” He chuckles nervously, then checks his watch again. “Oh, hey, listen, I’ve got to get back to the store. But don’t worry, I’ll be out here to pick you up around four o’clock.”

“Uncle Doug, please.” I reach toward him with my brown-stockinged arm.

“Don’t forget to move around. You know, writhe a bit, like you’re a wavy carpet.” He undulates his torso and arms. “You want to make sure you’re noticed.”

“I don’t think I do. Not if I’m going to be beaten up. I want to lie down and disappear.”

“Hey, I’m not paying you to lie there like a rug.” Uncle Doug laughs a great big belly laugh.

“You’re not paying me at all!” I remind him.

“Now, now. Did I or did I not advance you five hundred dollars against my one-thousand-dollar investment? The least you can do to repay your uncle Doug’s generosity is generate a bit of traffic for his store.” He winks at me. “You’re a good kid, Seanie. See you in a bit.”





I’M DANCING AROUND in the snow on the side of the road in my carpet costume. Not because I want to attract attention to myself — certainly not, after finding out about the mascot assailants — but because I still have three and a half hours before Uncle Doug is coming back to get me and I have to take the mother of all whizzes.

I spin around desperately, searching for somewhere I can pull off this stupid outfit and drain the dragon.

But there is not a single solitary tree, bush, or abandoned building to crouch behind.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Jesus.

A little pee devil on my shoulder is trying to convince me to “just let go.” To open the floodgates inside my costume like Uncle Doug said to.

Sure, it’s disgusting, but I am in some serious pain here. And I don’t want to die. Because it can totally happen. I know. I heard about this one dude who was “holding his water” to try and win a water scooter on some radio show and his bladder totally exploded.

Oh, God, it hurts so bad. From my belly all the way to the very tip of the tap.

All right. All right. Forget it. I’m done. If I don’t go right now I’m going to pass out. It’s fine. It’s no big deal. Astronauts pee in their space suits. Scuba divers pee in their wet suits.

And I can pee in my carpet costume.

I have my change of clothes back at the store. Everything’ll be mostly dry by the time I get picked up anyway. And this costume definitely can’t smell any worse than it already does. Nobody’ll know the difference.

I just have to relax and let nature take its course. I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, loosen my grip on things, roll my eyes back into my head, and . . .

and . . .

Nothing. Not even a pressure-relieving dribble. Not a single goddamn drop.

I can’t believe this. I actually get myself to the point where I’m ready to whiz all over myself and my stupid, pee-shy bladder won’t even let me go?

Okay. Okay. Calm down. Maybe it’s like in public bathrooms when people are waiting behind me and I can’t get things flowing. I’ll just make a deal. That’s it. I’ll make a deal with my dingle. It’s my go-to strategy in desperate times.

I close my eyes and tell myself, If you pee right now, you will win the film festival and you will not have to share a room with your evil sister. But only if you pee right now. By the count of five.

One . . . Mm-hmm. Okay. I can feel the tension starting to ease. Two . . . Oh, yes. That’s right. Here we go. All I needed was some incentive. Three . . . Almost there . . . Almost there . . .

“Incoming!” some guy shouts.

My eyes fly open, everything inside me clenching back up. A giant red truck is screeching to a halt right in front of me. Two ski-masked kids hang out the windows and start rifling eggs, tomatoes, and — zucchini? — at me.

“Go shag yourself!” one of them hollers.

I undulate like Uncle Doug showed me to try and ward off the onslaught, but it’s pointless. I am pelted from tassels to toes. Eggs exploding all over my costume. Zucchini battering me like dozens of tiny green baseball bats.

A giant juicy beefsteak tomato catches me in the face, erupting on impact and saturating my spandex mask with gloppy pulp.

I try to spin away from the assault, but my sneaker catches a patch of ice, sending my feet flying into the air. I flop onto the sidewalk with a muffled thud.

“Woo-hoo!” the guys whoop. “Fifty points! Did you get that on your phone?”

“Sure did.”

“Sweet. Let’s go YouTube it!”

The truck peels off and I lie there for a minute, stunned. A few self-pitying moments later, I realize that the trauma of the attack has totally scared away my pee urge. Well, thank Lord Vader for small favors.

Finally I roll over, hoist myself to my feet, and waddle back over to the signs. I might as well carry on until Uncle Doug comes back. What else am I going to do dressed as a giant rug and stranded in the middle of a suburban wasteland?

But as I bend over to retrieve the boards — which looks about as awkward as you can imagine — Uncle Doug’s two-tone green van coasts up to the curb. And just like that, my desperate need to whiz comes back with a vengeance. It’s like now that my bladder knows a toilet is only a quick van ride away, it can stop playing possum and start making noise again. Major noise.