Page 87 of Playing His Game

Perhaps Mo had let him get away with too much, actually, now that he thought about it. “So sassy this morning.”

Adam snorted. “Just glad you can finally identify sarcasm.”

Wow, rude. Mo wiggled deeper into the blankets. “To be fair, I don’t think it’s my fault I thought you had no sense of humor.”

Now there was a tsking noise. “See, that’s what’s wrong with you rich people?—”

Squawking, Mo rolled toward him and pointed out, “You have more money than me?—”

“—you can never take responsibility.” He shook his head in mock-sympathy, or mock-despair, or something. Mo couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he knew he was being mocked.

Mo wrinkled his nose. “You sound like my parents.” Ugh. And he’d been so enjoying the afterglow.

Adam wheezed like Mo’d hit him in the stomach. “Oof. Ouch.” But it sounded like an apology.

“No, it’s fine, I mean, you’re not wrong. Even if the pot is calling the kettle from inside the house.”

“How much longer until you get rid of them, again?”

“Eight months.” It seemed like forever, which was just rude. Shouldn’t the fact that he had less than a year before the deadline mean the wait felt shorter? “Then I can tell my parents to take a long walk off a short cliff and ghost them for good.”

“Hmm.” Adam was silent for a moment then blurted out suddenly, like the words couldn’t be contained, “You should change your name.”

“Ishould.” Mo pulled a pillow to his chest as he thought about it. “I mean, Moritz Du Pont is…”

“A rich douchebag name?” He sounded odd. Maybe he was thinking about a douchebag who’d hurt him?

“Your name isAdam Murphy. Like the protagonist of a 1950s novel for twelve-year-old white boys.” After a pause, he amended, “In which Moritz Du Pont is the villain who poisons the town water supply so everyone has to buy his bottled stuff.”

Adam crinkled his nose and mirrored Mo’s posture. “What are you going to change it to?”

“Oh God, well, there’s a tough one. Lots of pressure. It’s like going back in time and deciding what you want to be when you grow up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if Moritz Du Pont is the bad guy poisoning the town, then… I don’t know, what’s Morris Better doing?”

“Drag queen, obviously.”

Mo grinned, pleased Adam had caught on. “See! You do have an imagination.”

“You can’t lead a horse to water and then be surprised when it drinks.” Adam chastised softly. He tucked a hand under his head, eyes unusually serious even for him. “So you’re keeping the first part? Kind of?”

“I think at least something that starts with M-O, or that sound. Otherwise I’ll never notice when someone uses my name.”

“Hmm… Montgomery?”

“Burns, like the villain inThe Simpsons,” Mo pointed out.

“Monte.”

“Stripper.”

“Mordechai.”

“Hit man.”

“I think you’re too short to be a hit man,” Adam mused.