Mom was home for dinner that night, which meant that dinner would be (a) edible and (b) not my problem, so I had a little time to relax.
I started looking for my copy of The Book Thief, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I retraced my steps to the living room, where Rafe was stretched out on the couch. “Rafe, have you seen The Book Thief?”
“Nope.”
“What’s that in your hand?”
“This?” Rafe flipped closed the book he was holding and frowned at the cover. “The Book Thief.” He went back to reading.
Reading! What the heck? Rafe doesn’t read!
I planted one hand on my hip and held out the other. “Give it.”
“You know what I like about this book?” Rafe asked casually.
“No…”
“Give me that!” I said, grabbing the book out of his hands. “Mom!” I could hear Rafe laughing as I stomped into the kitchen, fuming.
“What is it, honey?” Mom looked up from the carrots she was chopping, and I noticed that she seemed tired.
“Rafe stole my book,” I reported.
“Rafe?” Mom’s face brightened with a smile. “He wanted to read your book?”
Ugh—this isn’t going well, I thought. I decided to change tactics. “Rafe has about six months’ worth of old, used chewing gum stuck all over his room.”
“What?” Mom put down the knife.
“Rafe is hoarding old gum,” I told her. “He even keeps some in the toilet!”
That did it.
“Rafe!” Mom shouted, and stomped out of the kitchen. I could practically see the steam coming from her ears.
Ha! Revenge is sweet. Or in Rafe’s case, old and sticky.