Page 58 of Satisfied By the Slime
“Oh. I see why she made him cry then.”
She laughs again, then leans against the fridge door. The magnetic poetry on the door shifts behind her shoulder blade, rearranginga fragment of a sentence she must’ve composed months ago.
“The point is,” she says, “I can’t hide you from Gram. I can hide you from Mrs. Pritchett because Mrs. Pritchett sees what she expects to see and fills in the rest with conspiracy theories. I can hide you from Gary because Gary minds his own business. But Gram will walk into this house and know something is different in ten seconds flat, then she’ll sit at that table and drink her coffee and wait for me to tell her, and she’ll wait forever, Oz. She has infinite patience. She once waited three years for me to admit I hated the piano lessons she gave me when I was just a little girl. And she had known all along! She was just waiting for me to speak up for myself.”
“What will happen when she knows?”
Maisie rubs her temples, her fingers making small circles against the skin.
“I have to keep you a secret from her, at least until I figure this out. She’ll either love you immediately or call an exorcist, and I’mhonestly not sure which.” She looks at me directly, her eyes tired but determined. “I need time to prepare, to find the right words.”
I understand what she’s asking.
“I’ll stay hidden,” I say. “For as long as you need.”
Maisie nods, relief visible in the slight drop of her shoulders.
Until she remembers the note, and reads it one last time.
“The Pritchett investigation is officially activated. God help us all.”
Chapter 14
That Weird Dent in the Couch
Maisie
I’m wrapped in my rattygray bathrobe, the one with the coffee stain on the sleeve that refused to come out despite three treatments with my best stain-fighting soap. My wet hair drips down my back as I walk into the living room with my first cup of theday.
The sun streams through the eastern windows, catching dust motes and turning them into tiny constellations. On the couch, Oz has spread himself into a perfect cushion-mimic, his iridescent surface dimmed to match my grandmother’s quilt. Only a slight shimmer betrays him when the light hits at certain angles.
“You’re getting better at that,” I tell him, sipping coffee. “That’s a very convincing dent in the couch.”
Oz ripples slightly in acknowledgment. “I studied the depression patterns in the foam.”
I snort. “Charming.”
A sharp knock on the front door cuts through our morning calm.
Three rapid raps, confident and familiar.
My heart lurches.
“Shit!” I hiss, nearly sloshing coffee down my front. “That’s Gram. She’s early.”
Oz immediately flows off the couch, a teal-purple waterfall heading for the hallway.
“Under the bed,” I whisper-shout, pointing frantically. “She never goes into thebedroom. Stay there until I figure this out!”
The knock comes again, more insistent this time.
I cinch my bathrobe tight, run fingers through my dripping hair, and take a deep breath before pulling the door open.
And there she is, standing on my porch with the morning light haloing her silver-streaked hair. She clutches her worn leather Bible under one arm, a canvas bag of felting wool and tools propped against her hip, and a gift bag in one hand.
Her face breaks into a wide smile.
“Well, look who’s still in her pajamas at eight thirty in the morning! Must be nice.” She leans forward to kiss my cheek.
