“He was going to,” Juliette replied, nibbling on another cheddar cracker, “but he had to slip out early yesterday and hasn’t been back. His wife has a tummy bug, and now so does the baby.”
I shook my head. “Poor Shiva.”
Wykofski agreed. “And Yafir sympathy-pukes.”
We all winced.
And then Oliver cracked his knuckles. “All right,” he said, looking around, “who’s going first?”
No one liked it when I played a gardening term.
“Mingus isnota word,” Oliver argued, pointing to the board. He’d only managed to get two words down,theanddog, which seemed rather apt because Reggie had come in while we set up the game, plonked down next to Oliver, and put his head in his lap.
I said, “Mingus is a word.”
“I’ve never heard of it before,” Oliver argued. “Right, Juliette? You used to work in books. Mingus isn’t a word.”
Juliette shook her head. “I was never an editor. Though I’ve definitely heard it used before.”
Oliver wilted. “You’re joking.”
“I’m very serious,” she replied, omitting the fact that I had been the one to use it before at the bar. “It’s a flower, right?”
“The Mingus dahlia,” I said. “And I would argue that to bloom a Mingus dahlia—because they’re assholes that need perfect pH levels and sunlight and a prayer—is toMingusa dahlia.”
“That makes no sense,” Oliver grumbled.
Wykofski scratched his chin. “I mean, seems legit to me.” He was also the only one at the table who hadn’t yet scored any points. At least that was until I ended my turn and he reached over to myMingusand set down a handful of tiles. “Dioecious. Boom!”
Oliver’s mouth dropped open. “Now that isabsolutelynot a word!”
“It’s a plant that has different male and female flowers, requiring both to get it on and create baby plants. I learned that after Eula got on me for ripping up some of those—oh, what are they over there on the left bank of the Reservoir?” He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name. He couldn’t mean—“The pussy willow!”
Juliette, mid-drink, spewed her tea across the board.
It went on like that for a few more rounds. I playedmulchfrom theminMingus. Juliette playedquixotry, which we all had to look up. Wykofski tookcrwth, which felt like cheating, but after Juliette googled we learned that it was a bowed lyre. Oliver playedrabbit, and thenignus.
“Andignusis a word?” I argued dryly.
“It’s the past tense ofignite, obviously,” he replied.
They let me doMingus, so I let it slide. Between Wykofski,Juliette, and me, we were neck and neck, while Oliver spent most of his time complaining that he couldn’t place the wordarchaicbecause the last letter would’ve spilled off the board.
On the last round, Oliver playeddentil.
I squinted. “Shouldn’t that be anainstead of ani?” He smirked. “Not that kind of dentil.”
“Oh, is that one of your fancy architect words? You could’ve used them the whole time and you didn’t?” I asked.
He shrugged, pushing a few letters around on his tray. “It didn’t seem very fun,” he said, and Juliette gave him a thoughtful look, as if he had taken off a mask she hadn’t realized he’d been wearing. “Speaking of fun, Mingus is a proper noun. It isnotan approved Scrabble word.”
I pointed out, “You could’ve argued that.”
“But then you let me playignus. It worked out,” he added with a wink, checking the board. “Though I think that means Wykofski won. By a landslide.”
Wykofski pushed himself up from the table. “We all bring different strengths. Words are easy, if you know which way to put them. At least that’s what my English professor at Yale said.”
“Speak for yourself,” Oliver mumbled. “My professor had a hard-on for— Wait, you went to Yale?”
