“I don’t think he understands,” Diesel said.
“Later,” I told Carl. “Not now.”
Carl stuck his face into the tub and slurped up rice pudding.
“Listen, mister,” I said to him. “That’s unacceptable behavior.” I cut my eyes to Diesel. “You need to do something with your monkey.”
“My monkey? Sweetie Pie, he is not my monkey.”
“Okay, maybe he’s our monkey.”
Diesel took the tub of rice pudding from Carl. “I’m only admitting to joint possession of the monkey if I get joint possession of the bed.”
“You have that anyway. I can’t get you out of it.”
“Yes, but you have to like it.”
“No way. You can’t make me like it.”
“I could if I had half a chance,” Diesel said.
Carl tried to grab the rice pudding from Diesel, but Diesel moved it out of his reach and put the lid on it.
“Eeeee!” Carl shrieked. “Eeeeeeee.”
“Do something!” I said to Diesel.
“I don’t carry a gun, but I could choke him until his eyes pop out,” Diesel said.
“You need to go outside and take a time-out,” I said to Carl.
“Eee?”
“Yes, you.”
Carl thought about it a beat and gave me the finger.
“That’s it,” I told him. “You’re grounded for life. No television. No dessert. And forget about the Froot Loops.”
Carl reached for the Froot Loops.
“No!” I said.
Carl gave the Froot Loops the finger, climbed out of the cart, and stood next to Diesel, shoulders slumped, knuckles dragging on the ground.
A skinny teen with spiky purple hair and multiple studs and rings stuck in his face stopped to look at Carl.
“Whoa, lady,” he said. “That’s an ugly kid you got here. He looks like a monkey.”
Carl shrugged.
I guess from a monkey’s point of view, it was difficult to tell if that was a compliment or an insult. From my point of view, it was clearly an insult, and I experienced a bizarre rush of maternal outrage.
“I don’t like you trash-talking my monkey,” I said to the spike-faced guy. “And your face looks ridiculous.”
“Not as ridiculous as your hairy mutant in that shirt,” he said.
Carl snapped to attention. “Eep?”