Mike was already on dishwasher duty when John rang the doorbell. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her.
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