Apparently one or maybe both of my parents had been bragging about me. Oh man, I just had a horrible thought; what if they hadn’t been bragging, but instead telling people about all the really embarrassing parts of my life. “NO! No! I’m just being paranoid.” I told myself. See, I told you Mom and John had got me wound up tighter than a Swiss watch.
John politely introduced us, “Alvin, this is Mr. Rawnwe. He owns Pichaloe’s.”
I extended my hand to shake his, but he didn’t shake my hand. Instead he grasped it with both hands, leaned down to my level and spoke in a weird, French-used-car-salesman kind of voice. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the boy that has stolen my daughters’ heart.”
