I spoke slowly so as not to provoke her. “What did I do?”

“What have you done? What have you done? You’ve made me watch chicky flickies when we could’ve been watching Nip/Tuck!” She stuck her tongue out at me and made a farting sound, complete with a healthy spray of spit. A five-year-old’s or ninety-five-year-old’s equivalent to giving me the finger. “Gwyneth Paltrow ring any of your bells?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, you with your romantic comedies and board games, all miss sweet and innocent …” Then she busted into a really hysterical imitation of my mother: “Sliding Doors? Serena rented this? But she hates romantic comedies …” She looked down at me like she’d like to chew me up but I wasn’t worth wasting the PoliGrip on.

Admittedly—my mother was correct; I wouldn’t normally rent a Gwyneth Paltrow movie. Unless, of course, it was Seven.

Holding my hands up in surrender, I attempted to reason with her, because I was all for watching Nip/Tuck.

“So … let me get this straight. You don’t like romantic comedies either?”

“Hell, no!”

Now I was getting a little bit riled too. Here I’d politely endured many an evening of Mrs. Patterson’s movies and shows, and even though this was my house, I never complained. I just figured she was older and, well, I didn’t want to offend her delicate sensibilities. I should’ve known there was nothing delicate or sensible about her.

“What about Jeopardy!?” I certainly wasn’t responsible for her watching that.

“I just watch it to keep your virgin ears clean. The only daily double I care about is the one I get from an extra scoop of Meta-mucil.”

Um … cringe. So much for my virgin ears.

I made myself focus. This was a defining moment. Disturbing, but defining.

“So, you’re telling me we can watch … say, oh I don’t know … Sin City?”

“And Fight Club.”

“Yeah?”

As excited as I was at finding a new best friend in my geriatric babysitter, I refrained from asking her if she wanted to chill out and blaze with me. Although, at that precise moment, I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if she pulled her favorite bong out of her tote bag.

“How does spaghetti sound?” Ah, there she was. There was the Parker Brothers–playing fool I knew and loved. Just like a broken record. Frankly, I didn’t have the patience required for the “What’s for Dinner” variety hour, even with the new and improved Mrs. Patterson.

“Spaghetti sounds good. If you get the water started, I’ll do the sauce. I’m going over to Cole’s, though. So no corruptive TV shows tonight. Big history test,” I lied. I needed to go to the dam and I didn’t think I could wait until dark.