Part I

I dance, struggling to make up a fancy-dancy tap step with the polished toes of my church shoes. I hold my precious transistor tightly against my ear and sing along. Tippity-tapping on the hallway floor, on nice and shiny, just-polished wood. The echoes from the wood make great echoes and I make a good deal of noise with only a little effort.

Grandpa hears my tapping and singing. He’s trying to read the thick Sunday paper, but he can’t think straight. He yells up the stairway, making a good deal of noise himself. “Bo, what in blue blazes are you doin’ up there? The ceiling’s ’bout to fall on my head.”

“Sorry, Grandpa. I was just dancing. There’s cool music on my transistor.” The music keeps spinning in my head, begging my feet to keep dancing. I sit down on the floor and yank my shoes off, quick! Then I go right on dancing. But in between a right skip and a left hop, my foot slides out from underneath me and I lose my balance. I stop falling only when my head crashes into the wall. I wait, holding my breath. Maybe Grandpa didn’t hear me this time.

He heard. “Bo, get yourself down here in two shakes of a dog’s tail. If I had your grandmother’s yardstick, you’d be in for it.”

I sit, still huddled against the wall, and my head begins to pound. Maybe if I sit quiet-like, Grandpa will forget me. After all, Grandma says he’s always forgetting stuff.

Not my luck. My luck stinks, if you ask me. “If you aren’t standing in this kitchen by the time I count 3, Barbara Ann, then I’m gonna throw that transistor of yours in that ol’ sink of dishwater.”

I fly down the stairs. “Grandpa! Noooo! Not my transistor. I’ll mind you. Really I will.” I stand at attention in front of his chair with my transistor hidden behind my back.

“I have no idea why you are smashing into my walls, but it wasn’t a good idea. Until you learn to mind me, you can hand over that transistor. You be good all week, and I’ll give it back after church next Sunday.”

“Next Sunday! That’s a whole week!”

“Yes, in-deedy. A whole week by my calculating, too.”

So now I’m mad. Really, really, really mad. But I can’t get mad anywhere, because I know my Grandpa and he really would throw my transistor in the sink if I’m foot-stomping mad. I might be good at getting mad, but Grandpa’s better at getting madder.

I roam outside and sulk, lying on my belly under the Bridal Wreath Bush, dreaming of music beating in my head. Slamming car doors jog me back into the real world. “Hey, Grandma. Grandpa. The cousins are here,” I shout, as all three kids tumble from the car.

Aunt Luisa and Uncle Jesse sit in their car as my grandparents and parents walk over for a look. The car is brand new, although I don’t know what kind, and I don’t care either. Bits of adult talk like “Congratulations” and “She’s a Beauty” fill the front yard. My cousins and I sneak into the back of our lot, way out by the junk pile. Calista is older than me and D.C. is my age. Kirkie is the youngest and he’s nearly old enough to go to school, but he still cries when Aunt Luisa leaves him with a babysitter. Actually, he still cries about lots of things.

“Hey, Bo! Hey, Bo! Hey, Bo!” chatters D.C. as he sticks a transistor in my face. Calista looks irritated, but in an interested kind of way.

D.C. pesters me some, but he’s my favorite cousin so I pester him, too. “Hey back to you, D.C. What’s new with you?”

“Look, I got my birthday present.” He makes a kissy-face to his radio, even though that’s sissy. “A transistor! Just like yours.”

I look at his stupid transistor, just to be nice. “It got batteries inside?”

“Yeah, sure. What ya’ think? A new transistor without no batteries.” D.C. googles at his radio. Calista pinches Kirkie to make him cry and Kirkie pulls my hair. D.C. holds his transistor up to his ear so I can’t hear the music and croons into the little speaker. I throw myself back on the grass and scream. Then, even though I know better, I’m feeling meaner than mean. I snatch D.C.’s transistor out of his hand and throw it into the junk pile. Calista and D.C. and Kirkie all start screaming, yelling for their ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy.’ I close my eyes and sing in my head.

Grandpa, who is fast for a grandpa, comes around the house first and makes a bee line straight for his screaming grandchildren. His voice makes more noise than all four of us kids. “What is going on back here? Can’t take my eyes off you for one second without a racket breaking loose. Calista, stop sniveling and tell me what’s going on.”

Calista is a tattle-tale, even though she is eleven years old, so she gives the adults the story, detail by detail. For her finale, she bursts into tears. “Bo threw D.C.’s transistor in the junk pile. She ruined poor D.C.’s birthday.”

Grandpa studies the situation for about ten seconds. He sees the shiny, black radio nestled in the pile of splintered boards and rusty nails and cases of soda bottles. It’s easily visible. Dad was planning to take that stuff to the junk yard, but he hadn’t borrowed a truck yet. “Don’t any of you reach in for that transistor. That junk is all rusted and sharp. You’ll get lockjaw.”

He pulls me off the lawn by my arm, though rather gently, and brushes the grass stains from the seat of my pants. “Bo, you’re coming with me. You other kids stay out here and be quiet. We’ll be right back.” He mutters in my ear as we head to the house. “Had five kids and they never howled like all you kids. Just like a zoo around here.”

Grandpa was mad at all of us, but he was mad at me the most. “Don’t you have any common sense, girl? Now get in the kitchen and fetch your transistor. It’s in my desk drawer.”

“Grandpa, don’t! Please don’t throw my transistor in the dish water. It’s my most special possession.”

“Dish water? Whatever are you mumbling about, Bo? You’re gonna give D.C. your transistor and tell ‘em all you’re sorry to boot. Then we’re gonna have birthday cake and you’re gonna sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

Grandpa’s words are law. I find my transistor and take it outdoors. My cousins aren’t crying, but they’re all still pouting. Mom and Aunt Luisa stand over them, their arms crossed tightly. They warily eye me as I join everyone, and my mom shakes her head at me. Before everyone can re-hash the fight, I offer my transistor to D.C.

“I’m sorry I threw your transistor in the junk. You can have mine.”

D.C. grins and reaches out for my transistor, but Aunt Luisa grabs hold of it first. “Why, this ain’t no new transistor. I bought D.C.’s brand new last Friday. This one’s all scuffed up and there’s a crack in the bottom. D.C. don’t want this trash.”

“Ma,” whines my cousin. “It’s fine. It’s Bo’s transistor and I want that one.”

“Shush, D.C. You don’t know what you want. Throw that piece of junk away and I’ll get you a bigger and better one tomorrow.” Then Aunt Luisa makes HER mistake. She flings my transistor into the junk pile, right next to D.C.’s shiny, new one.

Everyone eyes the two transistors, laying side by side in the junk. No one moves as Grandpa’s face turns redder than when he gets his summer sunburn. “Why don’t you throw the baby out with the bathtub, Luisa?” he growls under his breath. He turns to the rest of us. “I think this party is done. I’m goin’ inside.”

And since Grandpa’s word is law, the party breaks up.

Part 2

Grandpa stomps off, but the conversations continue…

Aunt Luisa to her sister-in-law (my Mom): “You better get that child’s temper under control. You don’t see my kids acting up.”

My Mom to Aunt Luisa: “At least Bo would appreciates a gift given in good faith.”

Grandma to my three cousins: “Let’s get your stuff packed up quick. You don’t want your parents to drive off and leave you.”

Grandpa to Grandma: “Hurry them up. Luisa and Jesse are in the car. I’ve had enough fighting for one day.”

Grandpa to me: “Say, Bo. Sorry ’bout your transistor and makin’ you stop dancin’ and all that.”

Grandma to me: “I’ll let you borry my little transistor until you can save for another.”

Mom to Dad: “Why didn’t you haul away that junk when you promised? Then none of this woulda happened.”

Dad to Uncle Jesse: “Meet you on the first tee tomorrow. 7:15.”

Aunt Luisa to Mom: “Love ya’, Sis. See you next week.”

Mom to Aunt Luisa and her family: “Had a real nice visit. Love you, too.”

Grandpa to Grandma: “I cherish my family, I do. But do they have to visit every week?”

Grandma to Grandpa: “Hush. Someone will hear you.”

Grandpa to Grandma: “Bah! No one ever listens to me.”

Bo to no one in particular: “I listen to Grandpa.”

Grandpa, hiding a grin, to Bo: “Get along, Bo. Why don’t you take Grandma’s transistor and do a little tap dancing?”

Bo, hugging her Grandparents: “Sure do love you both.”

Grandma to Grandpa, in a whisper: “What a spitfire she is! Just like you.”

Grandpa: “If I remember correctly, you were a spitfire, too.”

Grandma: “Sure enough was. And I still love a good spitfire.”

Grandpa: “Especially when she loves us so fierce.”

Aunt Luisa and her family drive away ’til next Sunday. Dad borrows a truck and hauls the junk away. Mom rescues the transistors, gets them to play, then puts them away for a few days. I dance in the hallway in my tennis shoes, a pretend transistor thumping in my ear. And Grandma and Grandpa hug each other, and head outside to stroll in the garden.

Grandpa and I survey the freshly weeded garden as sudden splashes of rain smack our bare arms. “Bo, grab that basket of rhubarb and dash them into the kitchen. I’ll finish up out here.” He scoops the garden tools from the ground and tosses them into the wheelbarrow as I run across the backyard, balancing the garden’s bounty in my arms.

I traipse through the kitchen door, carrying the soil-streaked rhubarb. Grandma looks up from the rocker where she’s smocking a church dress for me. Just one glance at my mess and she lets out a whoop.

“Bo! Don’t track that mud into my kitchen. What’s got into you? I scrubbed that floor not an hour ago. You march right outside and clean that ‘barb at the spigot.”

I look out the screen door as the raindrops grow larger and heavier, hiding the sidewalk’s rainy polka dots with a sudden deluge. “But Grandma, it’s raining and I’ll get wet.”

“Bo, do what I say! You’re already wet, and soon to be wetter. Rinse off that rhubarb. Then go up and take a quick bath. Your pa will be home from work soon and he don’t want to see you covered with mud.”

I know that isn’t exactly true. Pa never cares if I’m covered with mud. After all, he pumps gas and checks oil all day Saturday. He gets filthy when he works, all covered with grease and oil, and he doesn’t mind. Grandma’s the one who cares ’cause she’s been cleanin’ the house since breakfast and so I do as I am told. Grandma calls after me. “Remember, only a couple inches of hot water. The water bill was sky high last month.”

“Yes ‘m,” I mumble. How can I clean away this pasty garden mud with that speck of water? I turn on the faucet to get the hot water running and fill the tub with enough water to barely cover my feet. I turn on my transistor, setting the dial to ‘The Hundred Top Pops’ on AM 690. As the tunes fill the bathroom, I climb into the water, and splash back and forth against the cold porcelain tub. Once I’m mostly clean, I dry off and spread my towel on the bathroom floor. I can stretch out on top of it. The bathroom is one of the few places in the apartment I can laze around without an adult interrupting me. Every once in awhile, I swish the bath water, making it sound like I’m scrubbin’ my skin off. I never know when Grandma might stand outside the door, listening to me. (She’s sneaky, but so am I.)

The music from my transistor makes me happy. Bobby Vinton croons ‘Blue Velvet’ across the airwaves and I sing along with the tear-jerky love ballad. Suddenly a surge of commercials comes whizzing through the air and makes me sit up and take note. Hillbilly music springs from the transistor with a foot-stompin’ “Ya-hoo! Drink Mountain Dew. It’ll tickle yer innards.” I listen to the commercial’s ditty. I’ve never heard of Mountain Dew. Somethin’ brand new, I suppose.

“Bo, aren’t you out of that bath yet? Clean that tub and get ready for dinner,” Grandma calls from downstairs. “One of your favorites. Ham and beans.”

Ham and beans? One of my favorites? Who is she kidding? Nonetheless, I make myself presentable and approach the kitchen table, doing a little tap dance. Grandma looks me up and down.

“Bo, stop dancing in the apartment and pour yourself a glass of milk.” She’s always telling me to stop jiggling around, but Pa claims I got my natural dancing feet from him. “Leave her go a bit, Pearl,” my pa always says to Grandma. “Let her be happy for awhile. She’s just a child, you know.”

I sit at the table, and after Grandpa blesses the food, I start in with my questions. “Grandpa, what is Mountain Dew?”

Grandpa gives me an odd look, a kind of squint-y look, and stares hard at Grandma. “It’s a drink, Bo. Now eat.”

“But Grandpa, the hillbillies say it’ll tickle my innards. What does that mean? My transistor played a commercial for it. Can I buy a bottle and give it a try?”

Grandpa and Grandma frown into their ham and beans. “You say the transistor has a commercial for Mountain Dew?” Grandpa asks, enunciating each word slowly. He struggles to make sense of this conversation. Then aside to Grandma, he whispers. “Moonshine? She talkin’ ’bout moonshine?” Grandma shakes her head in bafflement and puts her finger to her mouth. “Shush, Smulling. She’ll hear.”

And I do. I hear every word, ’cause Grandpa’s part deaf and speaks loudly. I can hear his whispers a yard away. “Is Mountain Dew moonshine, Grandpa? What’s moonshine?”

“Bo, tell me the truth on a stack of Bibles. You say there’s a commercial on the transistor for moonshine?”

“Guess so. It said to drink Mountain Dew.”

“Eat your food, Bo. We’ll talk about this when your Pa gets home.”

I eat my ham, then shovel my beans into my napkin when no one is paying attention. I offer to clean up the table for Grandma so I can throw my beans away. I don’t want to hurt Grandma’s feelings, but beans are gross and I can’t swallow them.

Finally I hear Pa slam the front door. Grandpa folds his newspaper and peers down the hallway. “That you, Dale? We’re in the kitchen.” Pa lumbers down the hall and leans towards me, plunking a big kiss on my forehead. Then he gives Grandma a peck on her cheek. (Even though she’s his mother-in-law, they like each other a lot.)

“Hey, Smulling. Pearl. How’d your day go?”

Pa works in a filling station on Saturdays to earn extra money. Since Ma took sick, there are lots of doctor bills and Pa says he’s not about to get behind. To keep Grandma’s apartment clean, he showers and changes his clothes at the station, and shoves his work shirt and bibs in a crumply paper bag.

Grandma gives that greasy sack a nasty look. “Dale, give me those clothes and I’ll set the wringer to working.” Grandma heads into the basement while Pa gets his ham and beans from the warming oven. He’s hungry and cleans his plate before I can offer him a napkin for those beans. I wait for him to get some coffee and then I begin my interrogation.

“Pa, what’s Mountain Dew? Is it moonshine? Do you drink moonshine?”

Dad gives Grandpa a quizzical look and Grandpa shrugs his shoulders as he mutters into his newspaper. “The girl gone listened to some trash on the transistor. Now she’s asking lots of questions.”

“Whoa! Everyone slow down a second. You heard about moonshine, Bo? On your radio?”

“I don’t know, Pa. No one will tell me if I did or I didn’t. The hillbilly on the transistor said ‘Drink Mountain Dew. It’ll tickle your innards.’ I want to know what Mountain Dew tastes like.”

Pa sputters into his coffee cup and splashes his clean shirt. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and I see him wipe a silly grin off his face, too. “Smulling, you need to keep on top of these new fangled things,” he teases Grandpa. While Dad chuckles, I get impatient. He knows and he’s not telling me.

“Pa…”

“Sorry, Bo. Mountain Dew’s a new soda pop. I’ve seen the boys drink it at the station, though can’t say I’ve ever tasted the stuff. Looks green. Seems popular enough.”

Grandpa still frowns behind his paper. “What’s with the hillbillies, then? I thought Bo was asking about moonshine.”

“Smulling, I do believe moonshine and hillbillies were a part of your generation, not Bo’s. My girl wants some green soda water and it doesn’t take hillbillies to brew that. It’s just a foolish commercial she’s listened to.”

Grandpa won’t give up. “Well, if it’s for green soda water, can’t be good for her. She should drink milk, just like I did when I was her age.”

I can tell Dad thinks this is funny, but he keeps a straight face.

“No moonshine, Smulling?” Grandpa turns red, but refuses to answer.

Grandma is upstairs by now, huffing from climbing the stairs. “I’ve heard enough about moonshine. You all, hush.” Grandma sits down heavy in her chair. “Dale, those clothes are filthy. I’ve got them soaking in lye.”

“Pearl, I could do that washing. Draggin’ my clothes down those steps isn’t good for you.” Pa doesn’t like to be beholdin’ to my grandparents, but for now he hasn’t much choice.

“Ha! A man launderin’ his own clothes! Anyways, you got enough to do working two jobs and keeping your eye on Bo.”

“Say, thanks for watching her, Pearl, and thanks for dinner, too. Good enough to eat.”

“Pa! You call that good food? You and me, we hate beans.”

“Shush, Bo. You talk way too much. The rain’s let up. Go comb your hair and we’ll go for a drive. I’ve got an errand to run.”

I’m always willing to ride in the car. It’s only a couple years old, and it’s a pink and white Sportman DeSoto, and it’s got long chrome fins in the back. It’s absolutely the most beautiful car in the whole world, and Pa and Grandpa agree with me. I grab my transistor and hop into in the front seat.

“Where we going, Pa? Someplace fun? Can we maybe go to the junk yard?” I love visiting the junk yard with Pa.

“No junk yard today, Bo. Have to go back to the station. I plumb forgot something.” Pa drives down State Street and pulls the DeSoto to the side lot of ‘Ned’s Gas’. Pa and Ned are real good friends. Ned gave Pa a job when he needed extra money. “I need a word with Ned,” says Pa. “Hey Bo, I got a spare nickel in my pocket. You go check out the soda cooler.”

Soda? I never get soda. Most of my relatives say it’s bad for me, although Pa doesn’t ever give me his thought on the matter. The steel cooler full of bottles is chained around a tree, the case standing in the shade to keep the soda cool. I open the lid and check out the choices. Root beer. Cream soda. Orange Crush. Gee whillickers! There’s Mountain Dew in here! Dropping my nickel into the slot, I slide the Mountain Dew bottle out from its rack. I take a little sip. It’s spritzy and bubbly and, gosh, it does tickle my innards. I start giggling and can’t stop.

“Who’s pulling your funny bone?” Pa laughs as he sees me. Pa’s business is finished. He crouches on a grassy patch near the cooler, pulls a long blade from the ground, and whistles through it. “What’d you get to drink, Bo? Anything good?”

“Pa, it’s Mountain Dew. Look. It really is green and it tickles, too.”

Pa takes the bottle and looks it over. Sniffs the top. “Guess I’ll take a pull. See what all this ruckus is about. Maybe those hillbillies are on to something!”

He takes a gulp, then I take one. We take turns, finishing the soda pop faster than a panting dog slurps cold water. “Hey, Pa, it really does tickle my innards.” We find this immensely funny and laugh so hard we have to hold our bellies to stop.

“Bo, I think you’re right. It tickles my innards, too. Now we best get you back to the apartment. I need to visit your mom tonight. And don’t make a fuss to your Grandpa ’bout drinking Mountain Dew. I don’t think he rightly approves.”

“You’re right there, Pa. Grandpa would never approve of green soda.”

“I bet Grandpa doesn’t approve of anything that might give his favorite girl’s innards a good tickle. He must think tickling you is his job.” I nod seriously. I can understand Grandpa’s way of thinking.

“I’ll let him tickle my outsides and Mountain Dew can tickle my insides.” I start twirling on my tip-toes. “Pa? Thanks for getting me a Mountain Dew.”

“My pleasure, Bo. All my pleasure. Once in awhile, a gal’s just gotta have fun.” And he takes me by the hand and spins me towards the DeSoto.

I feel like I’m Cinderella, approaching my golden coach, and ready for a night of excitement. I just finished third grade and I’m way too old for fairy tales, but Pa still makes me feel like a princess in a golden coach.

“I love Mountain Dew, and I love you, Pa.”

“Well, what a coincidence, Bo. It happens that I love you, too.”

I’m Manda and I write stories about my wacky family. Sometimes they are stories I read to my whole family after dinner. Sometimes, they’re secret stories and I lock them in my diary and hide them in a shoe box under my bed.

So here’s my family.  There are four generations and we live in an apartment in the city.  The street we live on is so busy, the traffic noise never stops.  It’s not so bad though.  You hear the same noise all the time, pretty soon you don’t hear that noise at all.  It’s plenty busy on our corner and I never cross 12th Street without hangin’ tight onto an adult’s hand even though I’ve been crossing streets back in Bowler since I walked to kindergarten.

Used to be it was only my Grandmas and Grandpa living here in the city apartment.  My family – me and Jeff and Ma and Dad – lived on the other side of Illinois in the best town.  Not any longer.  We had to move to the city, so we came to live with Ma’s family for awhile.

It’s plenty busy in my neighborhood. We are surrounded by a gas station, a car wash, a restaurant, a church, a drug store, a dairy and a paint store. Plenty of places for me to walk. I can buy an ice cream cone, a movie magazine, a bottle of soda pop, candy bars galore, a Chicago style hot dog, or six newspapers from all over the world, just by jumping off the stoop of our building’s front landing and walking a bit.

Grandpa says we are dang lucky because we have a yard in back. Big enough to have room for  flowers by the building for Grandma, and a little vegetable patch for Grandpa and a maple tree for me. There’s a shaggy lawn that always needs cutting, too. Mr. Stuckey, our landlord, he hates garden stuff, so Grandpa cuts the grass.  They got some sorts of a ‘rangement.

Now that I’ve told you where I live, I’ll tell you about my family.  Remember I called them wacky? Only because they are. Each and every one of them.

My great-grandma Prudie is really, really old and Dad calls her the matriarch of the family. (I call her Big Mama.) She says she likes being a matriarch, but I’m not sure exactly what the word means.  Something about being old and in charge because she’s a woman, but women aren’t hardly ever in charge.  Maybe in some women’s club.  Prudie is my best friend. My very best friend.

My grandpa is Smulling Reese Howard . (Smulling was his mother’s last name before she got married, when she was still a maid at the King’s Regency hotel.) I think Smulling is a pretty odd first name, but Grandpa would whoop me if I told him what I thought. Everyone who doesn’t pretty well know Grandpa calls him Howard Smulling or Howard Reese. Boy, does that send steam shooting out the bulges in his brain and I can see smoke whoosh straight outta his ears.

He had his eightieth birthday a couple weeks ago, and there was a real ruckus that day.

My grandma is Pearl Lee Howard and she’s married to my Grandpa Smulling. Obviously. They had  their golden wedding anniversary last summer, and it was some big deal.  We came in from Bowler and partied all day long and all night, too.

Pearl is Prudie’s only kid. When Prudie tells family stories about my Grandma being a little girl, she always ends by saying in a kind of singing-songing voice, “and one was enough!” Ha!
My family calls Grandma “Grandma,” even Dad.  Grandpa calls her Pearl or Wife, and Prudie calls her Pearlie (Pearl Lee, get it?) My grandma is sixty-eight. Dad says she got married young and that’s why she’s so young, and Grandpa got married kind of old and that’s why he’s so old.

My dad’s name is Dale Joe Johnstone. And he’ll come straight out and tell you, “My name is Dale Joe, there ain’t never been a Dale Joseph, and if there is one, I hopes I’ll never come face-to-face with the mate.” My dad and my grandpa are pretty particular about their names.

Dad works two jobs so he isn’t around much. Hospitals are really expensive, Jeff says. When Dad is home, we’re good buddies. My dad doesn’t want me to say how old he is, so I won’t. But Dad’s got four younger brothers and my youngest uncle is 36 and they were all born once a year, so you can figure pretty close if you want.

Mom’s name is Jeannie Lee. She was born a Howard, but she married a Johnstone. She’s been married to my dad just about forever. She’s been sick forever, too,  and she stays at the hospital sometimes, but I’m not supposed to worry.

That’s the reason we moved.  So we’d be close to her hospital.  I kinda miss her lots, but my grandparents take good care of me, so I’m s’posed to act grateful.

My big brother is Jeffrey Andrew Johnstone and he’s near 14.  He hates the city and he hates the apartment.  Last night he kicked the bedroom door and screamed, “I hate my whole life.” Boy, I thought he gone and done it, but he didn’t.  My dad stood up slow like his bones were all creaky, and he said, “Come along, Son.  Let’s go for a walk.”

Boy.  Then I wished I’d a kicked the wall and screamed first.  I feel like kicking and screaming, too.  If I’d gone and gotten mad,  I’d been the one out walking with Dad,

Finally I’m at me.  My name is Manda.

My full, entire name is Amanda Suzanne Johnstone, but no one calls me that except for my school teachers. I’m ten years old and I finished fifth grade last week. I got all A’s and Grandpa gave me a half dollar.

That’s all I’m gonna tell you about my family for now.  Jeff and I, we’re gonna walk to the park and feed the ducks. I named the biggest one Peabody. He’s like my pet, ’cause there aren’t any pets in my apartment.  All my grandparents, they all claim they’re allergic. I’ve got my own take on that allergic stuff, but that’s not the sort of think I say out loud. After all, I’m just a kid and I live with 5 adults.