“You’re sticking around here today,” my mom tells me. “Consider it your punishment for scaring the ‘you know what’ outta me yesterday.”
“But, Mom—”
“But nothing, Henry. Build a sandcastle or a sand sea monster, read a book, do one of your video games, whatever. You’re staying in my sight, understand?”
“But–”
“This is not something open to discussion, Henry James Rowley.”
A sandcastle, how babyish. But I know when she uses my whole name that saying anything more will just make it worse. What’s worse than one day being grounded? Two days.
She makes me a fried egg sandwich for breakfast with toast and lots of mayonnaise. I would think that fixing my next-to-favorite breakfast means she’s sorry for grounding me, but she puts a bunch of lettuce on it so that makes things even.
“What else
