Awkward fact: Grumps didn’t step on Oak on purpose.
Yeah, but it wasn’t pure accident either, was it?
He was blindfolded; he didn’t know Oak was there. That’s the bit Sumac failed to mention last night.
Yeah, but Grumps would have known Oak was underfoot if he’d been paying attention, because Brian called out to Oak when he crawled into the Loud Lounge. So it was negligence plus carelessness and bad temper.
Hang on, did Brian actually say Oak’s name?
Sumac can’t remember. She’s a bad noticer.
Probably somebody else has mentioned the blindfold to the moms and dads by now: Aspen, or Brian, or Grumps himself. It shouldn’t be always up to Sumac to report every little detail.
He was definitely mad with Brian about the cigarettes, anyway.
Yeah, but he wasn’t mad with Oak, was he?
Well, losing your temper makes you clumsy, so Grumps might have stepped on Oak even if he hadn’t been blindfolded. And he definitely didn’t care enough. He called it a wee collision and didn’t say sorry! Or — Sumac tries to remember — maybe he said a quick sorry, but you could tell he hardly meant it.
The way she told it last night may not have been true in every tiny detail, but it was true in spirit, because Grumps probably does long to stomp on all the Lotterys. He’s a parasite, all take and no give.
Argh. Sumac’s got to get out of this not-her-room. As she goes downstairs, past the door of Catalpa’s Turret, she hears Oak doing his usual babble. She puts her head in —
And finds Oak playing with three hairbrushes while Catalpa’s kissing some boy. Wet smoochy kissing so Sumac can hardly even see the boy’s face.
“Get out,” Catalpa screeches.
“Sorry, I am, I am.”
As Sumac shuts the door behind her fast, a wail goes up from Oak.
She considers telling the nearest parent that Catalpa is not exactly concentrating on elevating Oak’s finger. Then decides to keep her big mouth shut, for once.
She follows the smell of warm pie down to the Mess. Sic is there, sipping ginger iced tea.
“But why did Mrs. Zhao take you through a major intersection on day one?” CardaMom is demanding.
“She knows no fear. She’s used to Beijing traffic,” Sic says shakily. “When she shouts, I can’t understand her accent, but I don’t want to say so in case she gets even madder….”
“Maybe she’s not so much bossy as Confucian,” says PapaDum.
“Confusing?” asks Aspen, upside down against the refrigerator, where she’s practicing a headstand.
“Confucianism, the ancient Chinese philosophy,” CardaMom tells her. “The young should respect their elders and all that.”
“Elder doesn’t always mean wiser,” says Wood.
They’re all thinking about Grumps, Sumac can tell.
Catalpa comes down with Oak riding on her hip and the kissing boy behind her. He’s pale and skinny, and dressed all in black like her, with quite an interesting face now Sumac can see it.
“Quinn,” says PapaDum, “will you stay for some peach pie?”
Ah, so Quinn the crochet-tagger from Game of Tones is not a girl!
He twitchy-smiles and shakes his head instead of answering. Sometimes the Lotterys have that effect on visitors: speechlessness.
“He’s got to go,” says Catalpa firmly.
On the way out, Quinn gives Oak a little high five — on the hand that’s OK.
“I don’t know, has he taken any of his meds?” CardaMom mutters to PapaDum.
Grumps again: Nobody needs to say his name.
“Can I bring him a slice of pie?” asks Sic.
“Sure, let’s try that. The kettle’s boiled,” CardaMom tells him.
“Strong, with milk and two sugars,” PapaDum adds.
“Talk about rewarding a tantrum!” Sumac didn’t mean to say that out loud.
They all turn to look at her.
Under her breath: “He stomps on Oak, and he gets pie?”
“Sumac,” says PapaDum, “your grandfather hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday, and hunger makes people irritable. He’ll be more prepared for a serious conversation after he’s gotten his blood sugar up.”
“He’s got a tin of toffees under his bed,” says Aspen, standing on one leg and leaning over to make a letter T.
PapaDum’s eyebrows go up. “And what were you doing under his bed?”
“Just looking for something….”
“Yeah, like toffee,” says Wood.
“Time for ice,” says CardaMom. She approaches Oak with the soft blue ice pack, but he crawls away under the table. “OK, your views are clear,” she sighs.
“Listen, kids,” says PopCorn, “what happened last night was our fault.”
“The fault of us parents, he means,” says CardaMom. “Responsibility’s a hammock.”
“Huh?” says Aspen, upside down in a handstand again.
“It’s nice that it’s flexible, that we can take turns being in charge,” she explains, “but if the hammock stretches too far and somebody falls through …”