Free The Genius of Little Things by Larry Buhl Page B

“seventeen” song .
My birthday wish was for the enchilada ingredients to fly apart and return to their original containers. I left them alone while I made last-minute phone calls to previous science lab partners, former teachers and any number I could find. Nobody was home and they probably wouldn’t have traveled across town to the party of someone they barely knew, anyway. I could have called Levi, but he made me swear to never call his house, and his parents wouldn’t let him have his own phone. I didn’t even think of calling Rachel, though I had kept her number in my Box o’ Crap.
After I finished calling everyone in my book, I told Carl and Janet I had to run a quick errand and that I would be back in a half hour.
“Now where are you going?” Janet snapped.
“He said he’d be back,” Carl said. As they began arguing over whether it was right for me to keep taking off, I escaped. I walked around their neighborhood, looking for guests. If I could round up at least two people, Janet’s work would not be completely in vain.
Half of the houses in the neighborhood either looked empty or were empty. The next-door neighbors, the ones who often stared out from their windows, were home. I knew this because they were staring out at me as I passed their house. I almost didn’t stop, because, frankly, their constant snooping was creepy. But I needed guests.
They were Bob and Betty Hansen, who were grandparent-aged. They wore matching white pants and floral shirts, and scowled even when saying something pleasant. There wasn’t time to invite anyone else. This would have to be good enough.
I introduced the Hansens to Janet. They seemed to already know each other and were not on the best of terms. I could tell this by the way Janet said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you over,” and by Mr. Hansen’s derisive snort.
On the patio, the Hansens and Carl sat in a semicircle, stone-faced, as if in the waiting room of a dentist’s office with nothing to read. I felt a nascent headache. This “party” was stressing me out.
A strange woman walked in without knocking. She was large but more muscular than porcine, and younger than Janet. Her red hair was tied in a ponytail. She wore tight white jeans tucked into red cowboy boots and a t-shirt that said Eat the Rich .
“Hello bee lover.” She thrust an envelope at me. Inside was a year’s subscription to Scientific American magazine and a $30 gift certificate to a bookstore.
Janet introduced the woman as her sister Fiona. They spent a minute catching up. I surmised that Fiona had spent several weeks touring India and experiencing food poisoning. “Good news is, I lost seven pounds,” she said.
Fiona turned to me, smiled, grabbed my arm, and led me to the patio.
For ten minutes Carl played talk-show host with the Hansens, prompting them to share the highlights of their lives. We learned they moved from Phoenix to Las Vegas because the weather was drier. Mr. Hansen retired from a company that made dog supplies, but they never had pets of their own. Mrs. Hansen found Las Vegas to be not as dry as she hoped. They paid too much for their house, they agreed.
Then, the Hansens ended the Q and A session. Mr. Hansen declared that Janet’s real estate business must be in “the crapper.”
“Janet says the market is coming back,” Carl said.
“Look around,” Mr. Hansen said. “All these new houses sitting empty. The black family left in the middle of the night.”
“They seemed shifty,” his wife added. “Guy had one of those Porsche -cars.”
Mr. Hansen corrected her, as if for the hundredth time. “Mercedes.”
 “What’s a guy like that doing with a Mercedes?”
 “Drug money.” This exchange seemed they had rehearsed it.
Fiona turned to Carl. “Are they serious?” He shrugged and looked up, helplessly, at Janet in the kitchen window.
Mrs. Hansen turned to Fiona and asked what she did for a living. Fiona took a big swig of iced tea and waited about ten seconds