“If you change your mind, call any of us,” Asher said after a long pause.
“Thank you.”
Ash nodded sharply, then tapped his iPad. “On to item B. Are we all in favor of purchasing a Christmas tree? And if so, what is our budget? I vote yes, and if we keep it around sixty dollars, that’s ten each. Item C, Mrs. Norris’s poodle has been prodigiously pooping on our lawn. We need a volunteer whose name isn’t Asher to ask her to please curb her pet. And finally…”
We shared an expectant look when Asher hesitated.
“The suspense might actually kill me before the frostbite, Ash,” George snarked. “Go on.”
Asher sighed heavily. “You know who requested a tutor again.”
Everyone groaned on cue.
Except me. I had no idea who they were talking about, but I wasn’t overly concerned.
Not to downplay the importance of these roommate meetings, but the only real issue we had was the fritzy furnace. The other items were simply extra things I could do as a show of appreciation. Like I said, if it weren’t for Asher and his friends, I’d have been in a real pickle. Moving here had not only gotten me out of a stinky situation, but it had also saved me a lot of money. It was practically my duty to volunteer my services when and wherever I could.
I pushed my glasses to the bridge of my nose and raised my hand. “Excuse me. If I may?”
Asher inclined his chin. “Of course, Chet.”
“I vote yes for holiday cheer and will happily add a few dollars of my own for garland and mistletoe. If I might be so bold, I’ll even pick up the cheerful Tannenbaum. And don’t worry about the pooping poodle—I’ll have a chat with Mrs. Norris about Armand as well.”
Tommy frowned. “Armand?”
“Yes, that’s her dog’s name. I ran into her and her pooch when I picked up the mail one day last week. We had a lively conversation about her French poodle. Or…pudel in German.” I gave a half laugh. “Fun fact, French poodles are actually German.”
“Wait.” Holden scratched his scruffy jaw. “French poodles aren’t French?”
“Well, the breed is commonly thought to have originated in Germany, but it was claimed by the French, where it’s called caniche. Poodles are water dogs,” I continued at a faster clip. “They were bred to retrieve game from rivers, creeks, etcetera. Armand is far too regal—not to mention spoiled, to entertain the notion of chasing after falling fowl.”
My roommates stared at me incredulously.
That was okay. I’d been told I had that effect on people.
“How do you know all that?” George cocked his head, clearly perplexed.
“I don’t know,” I replied with a shrug. “I must have read it somewhere, and it just…stuck.”
I was treated to a five-way nod of comprehension. Everyone in this room had a photographic memory. They understood that the brain worked in mysterious ways. Some people were amazed they could remember phone numbers and addresses of friends and family from their youth. Others retained that info and a lot more. For example, I could recite pi to the fifty-thousandth digit. It would be a fun skill to dazzle folks at parties with if it didn’t take so darn long.
“Well, since you have a rapport with her, that would be great. Thank you, Chet.” Asher smiled kindly.
“No problem. As for the tree…do you prefer a Douglas or a noble fir?”
“Uh…” Tommy, Holden, and George stalled.
“I love a noble fir myself, but we can vote on particulars at our next meeting and plan to purchase the tree the last weekend in November,” Asher said. “I just wanted to be sure we were all on board with adding a spark of holiday cheer again. Yay or nay?”
“Yay,” we responded in unison.
“Excellent. That leaves us with a request from our neighborhood hottie to tutor his spawn this Saturday. And before you say—”
“No,” George intercepted. “Sorry. I’m busy.”
“Me too. School is quite grueling this week,” Holden piped in. “I’ll have a lot of papers to grade by the weekend.”
Tommy nodded. “Same.”
“Simon and I will be at the beach,” Topher hedged. “Maybe.”
All eyes turned to me again.
“It’s your turn to come up with an excuse,” George prodded.
I furrowed my brow. “Okay, but why? And tutoring for whom?”
“The kid down the street.”
“The rascally one who stuffed plastic spiders in our mailbox on Halloween.” Asher sighed. “Listen, I know the tyke is a handful. If no one wants to tutor him, I think we need to find a different way to help. Mr. Rooney McSwoony hurt his shoulder doing something footballish recently. I ran into him when Blake dropped me off earlier today. He gave Blake all the sporty details from his mishap and then asked if one of us could come by on Saturday for an hour or two. He sounded…desperate.”
“We should certainly help,” someone said.