Freddy tipped to one side and there was George, short and delicately formed and pale as a frozen french fry. He grabbed Freddy’s hips like handles and scrambled out of him, springing into the air and coming down on the balls of his feet, holding his soccer-ball-sized gut over his Hulk Underoos.
“It’s incredible,” he hooted, dancing from one foot to the other. “It’s brilliant! God! I’m never, ever going home!”
“Oh, yes?” Alan said, not bothering to hide his smile as Frederick and George separated and righted themselves. “And where will you sleep, then?”
“Here!” he said, running around the tiny apartment, opening the fridge and the stove and the toaster oven, flushing the toilet, turning on the shower faucets.
“Sorry,” Alan called as he ran by. “No vacancies at the Hotel Anders!”
“Then I won’t sleep!” he cried on his next pass. “I’ll play all night and all day in the streets. I’ll knock on every door on every street and introduce myself to every person and learn their stories and read their books and meet their kids and pet their dogs!”
“You’re bonkers,” Alan said, using the word that the lunch lady back at school had used when chastising them for tearing around the cafeteria.
“Easy for you to say,” Greg said, skidding to a stop in front of him. “Easy for you—you’re here, you got away, you don’t have to deal with Davey—” He closed his mouth and his hand went to his lips.
Alan was still young and had a penchant for the dramatic, so he went around to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and banged it down on the counter, pouring out four shots. He tossed back his shot and returned the bottle to the freezer.
George followed suit and choked and turned purple, but managed to keep his expression neutral. Fred and Ed each took a sip, then set the drinks down with a sour face.