Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
12
TRENT
“Blueberry pancakes? Love ’em, but you gotta stir that mixture better, ba—Seb. Let me do it,” I offered, hoping a swift takeover would cover up my almost “babe” faux pas.
“Go for it.” Seb stepped aside and gave me a funny sideways glance.
I couldn’t blame him.
What the fuck was wrong with me? The only time I ever called him babe was in bed. “That’s it. Hold your ass open, babe. Tell me how bad you want it…” You know what I’m saying. I wasn’t a “term of endearment” kind of guy, and Sunday pancakes with a now thirteen-year-old who looked as though he’d rather eat razor blades than be in the same room with me wasn’t a good time to start.
I hadn’t tried to impress a teenager since I was one, and it wasn’t going well. Oliver was quiet and overly polite. He answered questions when asked, made eye contact, and smiled pleasantly, but I’d interacted with the real Ollie and I knew when I was being conned.
Sadly, I wasn’t good at talking around awkward subjects, and I was tired of trying. I burned three pancakes and charred the bacon while asking the stupidest questions possible, like “Are you excited to start summer camp?” “Get anything cool for your birthday?” I didn’t know about Ollie, but I was sick of me.
So…I dropped the act and blurted, “Hey, your dad said you’re going to continue your Oreo Claymation movie for a film show. I can help if you’re interested.”
Oliver cast a wary gaze between us. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I’m going to continue that project.”
“You should. I saw the finished product, and that short you did for school was awesome. I thought you mentioned writing a script for a longer movie.”
“I did, but…” He swirled a bite of pancake through a river of syrup.
“The Oreo and his pal Fig Newton…who wants to change his name to Chip, but something feels wrong about it and he can’t put his finger on what it is. Of course, he doesn’t have any fingers, which is another problem.”
I did an internal happy dance when Oliver giggled. An honest-to-God joyful-sounding giggle.
Seb chuckled too, flashing a proud father, happy lover smile at both of us. “Fig Newtons are the worst. How about a snickerdoodle friend? Or a peanut butter cookie named Nutty.”
Oliver laughed aloud and shook his head. “That’s not the story at all.”
“What is the story?” I prodded gently.
He eyed me warily, then shrugged. “It’s about a cookie and a kid and…”
“And?”
“It’s easier if I show you. C’mon.”
“I’m gonna clean up. I’ll meet you guys out there,” Seb called as Oliver led the way to the garage.
A little obvious but oh, well.
His dedicated movie space was a work table flanked by bicycles and a couple of surfboards that looked as if they hadn’t seen the ocean in years. I bent to study his clay figures, admiring the detail. The kid was actually pretty damn good.
“I thought you might want to know that I have some credentials,” I bragged like an idiot as I sat in the chair next to him.
The fringe of his bangs hung over his eyes when he looked up from his workbench. “Like what?”
“Well, like I told you on FaceTime a while ago, I’m pretty good at engineering things. For instance, I built a soapbox car from scratch when I was your age for a school project. I used a lawnmower base for a chassis and wheels from an old trailer. The body was cardboard. The thick kind that’s lightweight but sturdy, ya know? The tricky part was making sure the brakes worked, ’cause I drove that thing down a hill. My dad helped. There’s no way I could have done it on my own.”
“Didn’t you have a partner?”
“Yeah, he sucked. He let me do all the work and he took all the credit. Keith Miller. Do not trust that guy,” I warned in my strongest Philly accent.
Oliver cracked a smile.
He pointed at the makeshift stage, which was basically a large cardboard box with two open sides. The walls were painted sky blue with swirly clouds above and blades of grass drawn along the bottom near a white fence. Two clay figures were propped in a car…a boy and an Oreo.
“That’s Bill and Oscar.”
“Who’s driving? The kid or the cookie?”
“Oscar is actually a kid who turned into a cookie. He knows how to drive but he doesn’t have a license. And that’s part of the story. They need help and no one will listen to him.”
“They can’t hear the cookie talk?”
“Oscar doesn’t talk. He mumbles. Everyone thinks it’s Bill making noise and it’s very frustrating for both of them.”
“I bet. So…how can I help?”
“You can move the figures and I’ll take pictures.”
“I can handle that.”
Oliver’s direction was fairly simple. “To the left, half an inch. Same thing. And again.”