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“No way am I letting you tell it.” I look directly into the camera Nick is holding. “I spent every summer in this house with my grandparents, from the time I was born until I was old enough to help my parents at their businesses.”
Georgia nods in agreement. “I was the same—I lived with my grandma all summer while my parents worked. Things are crazy in Paradise from Memorial Day to Labor Day with all the vacationers. Anyone who has a business that caters to tourists basically works non-stop.”
“Am I telling this story, or are you?”
“I was just giving a little background info. It’s all yours now,” she protests, hands up, before moving not quite off-camera.
Hand to my mouth, I lean in like I’m sharing a secret with the viewers. “She hates to not be in the spotlight.”
Her eyes narrow. “Well, the show is calledAt Home with Georgia Rose.”
A grin spreads across my face. Not a forced one. I never have to force a smile when I’m with Georgia.
“Can I tell my story now?”
With pursed lips, she cocks her head to the side. “Nope. You lost your chance. I’m telling it.” Then she steps in front of me, and before I can say anything, she’s talking a million miles an hour.
“When Zach was a kid, he loved two things: the book he’s reading in this picture.” She holds up the picture again.
“And sandwiches,” She darts around me, pulls the actual book out of the box, and holds it up for the camera. “Because he loved the horse in this book,The Horse Who Liked Sandwiches.”
Too late, I realize the book is more appropriate for preschoolers than third graders, like I am in the picture. I hope no one else notices.
“Except, unlike…what was the horse’s name?” Georgia continues while flipping through the pages.
“Mario,” I answer too quickly.
She closes the book, and her lips curve into a smile. “Unlike Mario, the only sandwich Zach would eat—the only thing he would eat, period—was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And only grape jelly—which is gross.”
“No, it’s not. At least, it wasn’t when I was nine.” With my hands on her waist, I try to move her, but she is planted solid. And she doesn’t stop talking.
“His mom decided it was time for him to ‘expand his palette’.” She does air quotes here. But she’s right. Those were Mom’s exact words.
“All that means is she wanted to get me to eat foods I didn’t want to eat.” I keep my hands on her waist, but not to move her. I like the way they feel there. Plus, Georgia doesn’t even come to my chin, so it’s not like she’s blocking me from the camera.
“Which was all the foods that included anything but bread, peanut butter, and jelly.” She glances over her shoulder at me. The camera lights surrounding us catch her eyes, making them sparkle.
My breath hitches. Seconds pass before I shake loose the hold her eyes have on me. I can’t remember what I was going to say.
“Anyway.” I let my hands fall. “Granny tried to do what Mom asked by feeding me the prepared meals Mom sent over. I’d take a bite, wait for Granny to turn her back—she never could sit still—then feed it to her shih-tzu, who was the worst dog ever and definitely did not deserve Mom’s cooking.”
“True.” Georgia nods emphatically. “Then he would come over to my Grandma Rose’s and ask for a ‘zandwich.’”
“I had a little bit of a speech impediment. My s’s always sounded like z’s,” I say to the camera.
“It was adorable.”
My eyes dart to her, and I smile before looking back at the camera. “After a week, Grandma Rose happened to mention to my mom that I must be going through a growth spurt because I was eating so many sandwiches at her house every day.”
“He got busted.”
“Soooo busted. But she let me eat sandwiches again, as long as I tried three bites of whatever she’d made.” I’m not sure what to do with my hands while I talk, but I resist touching Georgia again. Instead, I do things like hold up three fingers when I say the number and weirdly wave them around. “And each day I was here, Granny watched me chew and swallow every single bite.
“And she and Grandma Rose called him Zandwich for the rest of their lives.” Georgia grins wide. “The end.”
I scoff. “I wish that was the end. This one still calls me Zandwich.” I point my thumb in her direction with mock annoyance.
“You’ll always be my little Zandwich,” she says in a voice that should only be used for babies.
