Regular Guy by Sarah Weeks Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œRemember, you’ve got tonight and all day tomorrow to play up the genetic-link thing, okay? Show them how totally normal you are, and do everything with your left hand, okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œâ€™Bye, Guy.”
    I hung up the phone and stood in the kitchen looking at Mrs. Smith’s copper-bottomed pans hanging neatly on the wall next to the stove. There was one empty spot where I could tell the stew pot simmering on the back burner normally hung. There was a cookie jar on the counter, but when I looked inside, it was empty. I walked back out into the living room and ran into Mrs. Smith coming down the stairs. I jumped. I was having a very hard time getting used to the fact that you never heard this woman coming.
    â€œI hope you’re making yourself at home, dear,” she said, patting my arm as she went past me into the kitchen. I followed her.
    â€œIt’s a very nice home you have here, Mrs. Smith,” I said. “Very normal.”
    â€œCedar Springs is a lovely place to live,” she said as she lifted the lid off the stew and stirred it around a little.
    I figured this might be a good opportunity to point out a few of those similarities between us, so I sat down on the tall kitchen stool and dove in.
    â€œSo, Mrs. Smith, I notice that you have very straight hair. Do you find it gives you problems in the winter time?” I asked.
    â€œNot really, dear,” she said as she opened a cupboard and rummaged around in the spice bottles.
    â€œBecause, well, I find I get a lot of static when I take off my hat for instance. You know, my hair stands straight up. I thought maybe since your hair is just like mine, maybe you—”
    â€œI never wear hats,” she said as she sprinkled something brown into the stew.
    â€œHow about being left-handed?” I said. “Does that ever inconvenience you in any way, because I find sometimes I—”
    â€œNo—no, it never bothers me,” she said as she picked up the spoon and began to stir again. Then she stopped stirring and lookedover her shoulder at me. “Say, aren’t you and Bobby supposed to be walking around in each other’s shoes this weekend—wasn’t that the assignment?”
    â€œUh, yeah,” I answered carefully.
    â€œWell, in that case,” she said as she tapped the spoon sharply on the edge of the pot, “you might as well run along now, dear, because Bobby would never stand here chatting with me while I cook. I’ll call you when dinner’s on the table, okey dokey?” Mrs. Smith smiled a tight little smile that made her eyes into little slits, and then she turned her attention back to the stew.
    My mother likes to have company in the kitchen when she cooks, but clearly Mrs. Smith was more of a solitary chef. I went back up to Bob-o’s room and tried to read a couple of his science-fiction books. Too many aliens and weird slimy creatures for my taste, and besides, now that I knew about the tuna balls under the dresser, I kept smelling fish even though it was probably mostly inmy mind. I wondered what Bob-o was doing at my house. I thought about calling him, but figured it would be safer to leave it up to Buzz to check on how things were going on that end.
    At six fifteen on the dot Mrs. Smith called me down to dinner. Mr. Smith sat at one end of the table and Mrs. Smith sat at the other. I took a wild guess and figured the place set on the side was for me. The stew was pretty good and so was the salad. My mother has a habit of putting unusual things in salad, like seaweed and cut-up licorice, but the Smiths’ salad was your basic lettuce and carrots—no surprises. For a while I was happy just to sit there and eat. Nobody said very much except for “Pass the salt, please,” and other stuff like that. I knew I was supposed to be planting seeds all over the place, but I was having a hard time