“I don’t see how this TV is any different than the one we had before,” Peter said, echoing my thoughts. “It isn’t even bigger, is it?”
“It’s not about being bigger!” Jack walked away from me, closer to the TV so he could explain all the merits of it. His lingo instantly got technical, which was silly since Peter probably knew less about technology than I did. Ezra and Jack were the ones who were obsessed with all things new and electric.
“It just looks like a television to me,” Peter said when Jack finished explaining how awesome it was.
Jack scoffed loudly, and this time, even Ezra defended his purchase. At that point, they were mostly talking to themselves, and Peter looked back at me. Just briefly, and I looked away almost instantly, but his eyes still caught me. It shouldn’t even be possible for eyes to be that green, and I shouldn’t be thinking about how stunningly attractive they were.
At least he played it cool better than me. If Jack and Ezra weren’t so damn excited about their new gadget, I’m sure they would’ve noticed how frazzled I acted. When I looked away from Peter, he went over to them to pretend to be interested in it.
Bobby sat in the chair, swinging his feet over the edge, and he looked more entertained by the bubble wrap than he did the TV. Milo was missing, which was strange, because he loved this kind of thing. He should be in here gushing all over the TV too.
“Where’s Milo?” I asked Bobby, since nobody else would listen to me unless I used the words “HD” or “plasma.”
“Helping Mae with the laundry,” Bobby said and popped another bubble.
I was tempted to steal the bubble wrap from him, but I had my chance to escape, so I took it. Jack wouldn’t be ready to go for at least another ten or fifteen minutes, and I’d rather spend that time waiting somewhere Peter wasn’t. At least Jack was too distracted to notice me slipping away.
Down the hall, between the den and the main bathroom was the laundry room, filled with two sets of super powered washers and dryers. Seven people lived in the house, and that amounted to a lot of laundry. I tried to do mine and Jack’s, but Mae somehow always got to it before I did. She was magic that way. The laundry room had several racks with hangers.
Most of Jack’s overflow clothes ended up down here, hanging on racks. His suits were in plastic bags, all neatly pressed, and they stayed down here to keep them from getting smooshed and wrinkled in our closet. The room was filled with the clean scent of clothes, but I could still smell us on them, especially Jack. No matter how many times they were washed, clothes managed to maintain some of their owner’s smell.
On one wall were the machines themselves, one set dark blue, and the other a weird orange. Apparently, the days of ordinary white machines were gone. Milo sat on one of the washing machines, watching as Mae pulled towels out of the dryer and folded them. I’m sure he offered to help, but she refused. She thought it was her duty to do everything for us.
Milo was dressed and looked good, except he’d painted his toenails, and I blamed Bobby for that. Mae, on the other hand, still wore her pajamas, and I hadn’t seen in her in real clothes in days. Her hair was up, but it was more of a rat’s nest than a bun.
“How’s it going?” I asked, trying for casual instead of concerned. When I walked in the room, Milo gave me a wary look, and Mae barely glanced back at me.
“I’m going to have to buy new towels,” Mae said. The usual warmth of her British accent sounded stogy and commandeering, but that was better than sobbing. “You leave the towels in your room for so long they smell of mildew, and I just can’t get it out.”
“Sorry. I’m working on it,” I said. Jack and I were the messiest ones in the house, unless Bobby turned out to be inordinately dirty.
“I didn’t say it was your fault.” Mae was nearly snapping at me, and she folded towels in an angry huff.
I’m pretty sure Mae loves doing laundry. I’ve seen her folding and washing things, and it’s like meditation for her. That was not how she did laundry today.
“Bobby and I always make sure to take our towels down,” Milo told her, and I glared him.
“Why is Bobby doing his laundry here, anyway?” I asked, and I realized I had missed very crucial facts about him. “Doesn’t he have like an apartment or a job or something?”
“He’s in art school and lives in a dorm,” Milo answered, matching my glare.
“Of course he is.” When I thought about it, Bobby really had art student written all over him. “So, does he ever go to school or anything? Why is here all the time?”
“He goes when he feels like it,” Milo said. “And staying here is better than staying at a dorm, and I want him here.”