He grins wider. “What?” “You’re a fopdoodle.” We both laugh. “I saw it on the Internet somewhere,” I insist. “It’s a real word.” “Your mom’s a real word.” “Your mom’s a real bad word.” He lets go of one of my hands so he can wipe his eyes. “Touché.” Then he asks, “What does fopdoodle mean?” “I assume it’s a fop who doodles.” “Naturally.”
