Doug caught up with us when we had to stop on the corner at 56th. “We goin’ to the subway? I can’t wait to meet this shrimp-lovin’ friend from out of town.” He laughed.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to see what damage he’s done to your bathroom.”

Chapter 12
Flamenco

“88th Street! Finally!” Zoe waved an index finger at me. “You and that token better behave. I have no more patience for walking today.”

“Oh, but you want to develop patience, right? Maybe that calls for one more trip up Broadway.”

“Here we are!” Doug ran up the steps to his greenstone. “Time for a big ‘ole shrimp fry!”

When we got inside, we were met with extreme squawking from the upstairs bathroom. Zoe pinched her nose. “What’s that smell?”

Doug sniffed his armpits. “I’m good. Must be Arcade.”

I sniffed. “I don’t smell anything. Zoe, you have an overactive nose.”

“No, I don’t. I have an accurate nose. Follow me.” Zoe started up the stairs, and we followed her to the bathroom door. She sniffed. “There. It’s in there.” She pulled her T-shirt collar over her nose. “You go first.”

Okay, so maybe it did smell a little like seafood—gone bad. I opened the door, then wished I hadn’t.

Doug followed close behind. “What’s goin’ on in Gram’s bathroom?”

I stepped aside so he could take a look. Flamingo droppings were everywhere, including all over the white rug that Doug’s grandma had put down next to the sink.

“I guess we should have moved that out,” I said.

“How can so much come from that little teeny bird?” Zoe reached down and rolled up the now ruined rug.

“Well, he ate his weight in shrimp before we left,” Doug said. “I guess we have to help Flames with a little thing called portion control. It had to come out sometime.”

Flames flapped his wings and flew into the bathtub. He kicked his webbed feet in the water, throwing a bunch of it up in our faces, like he was showing off.

“Hey, check out his dance!” Doug pulled a towel off the rack and handed it to Zoe, who had caught the biggest splash right in the face. “Looks like the flamenco!” Doug started kicking his feet and snapping his fingers above his head.

Zoe shook her head and dropped her face in the towel. “I’m outta here.”

Doug stopped the snapping and looked at me. “Guess she’s not into flamenco?”

*  *  *

After cleaning up for half an hour, and then taping garbage bags down on the entire floor of the bathroom, Doug and I made our way down the stairs, exhausted.