Page 7 of The Brat: Prequel
“It has to be the tomatoes or the ice.”
“The tomatoes?!” If he had a pearl necklace like mine, he’d so be clutching it. “You’d target tomatoes? Ice? What?! Wait, why are we wanting people to come down with food poisoning anyway?”
“Destroys brand trust, creates a distraction, shines a light on poor hygiene practices by big corporations who don’t give a shit about their customers—”
“Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t think big,” he says hurriedly.
“Scared of me, Seamus?” I taunt.
“I think a woman who co-opted tomatoes and frozen water as partners in a conspiracy to bring down... I’m not sure who... needs to be approached with caution.”
“Hey, I offered to go to the library alone.”
His nose scrunches. “I, unlike the budding terrorist beside me, meant the world is big and yet it can still feel so small. It’s packed with people, but it’s never been easier to feel isolated. And if family is what glues us together, then why are nuclear families gaining in strength and extended families diminishing? This city is a perfect example of how, without those links, community perishes.”
“So, if you ran things, you’d want to foster community and encourage familial ties?”
“Yes.”
I tighten my fingers around the straps of my oversized tote. “How’d you do that?” Then, before he can reply, I insert, “Paternity leave.”
He blinks at me. “Paternity leave?”
“Paternity leave,” I repeat. “Give men time off after birth—”
“Wait, shouldn’t women get it first?”
“Oh, well, I thought that was obvious.” I frown at him. “Surely, that’s where your mind was taking you with this fostering family shit?”
“Obviously.”
Well, thank goodness for that. “Shay, we need to work on your conversational skills if you’re ever going to get a girlfriend.”
“I have game!”
“The only game you have is the one you play with Conor.”
He scoffs. “Uncle Conor has massive game.”
“Yeah, but he looks the way he does and you don’t.”
“Mom says I’ll grow into my face.”
“I’m sure you will,” I soothe. “Also, free will.”
“Free will?”
“Free will. That’s the answer to your big philosophical quandary that was brought on by having to tear open too many sugar packets—” Before I can lay into him about one-time waste, as we use the crosswalk to head to the other side of the street, I notice the SUV waiting at the end of the block.
I’m sure it used to be my father’s.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Ha. I don’t know you well, Victoria, and I already know you don’t go quiet for no reason.”
“Just, wait here, would you?”
