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Mice (Now Everybody's Gay Verse)

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Georgia Oscar Bluth had several rules concerning her name. First, it obviously wasn’t Georgia (ew), it was Go. Not Go with a hard g, not like the stop sign, but the kind of Go that made everyone ask if it was short for Josephine (again, ew). Anyone calling her Georgia would be treated to her best impression of her mother snubbing a retail employee.


It was a very good impression, so people tended to only do that once.


Her second rule was that, if you were a blood relation, you were tentatively allowed to call her Gigi. Her siblings rarely took her up on that, unless they needed a favor.


Which is what had happened that morning.


“Hey, Gigi-”


Go groaned. “Shelley.”


Michelle Bluth forced a grin. “Right. Anyway, listen, I have to do this board meeting, and George Michael needs someone to pick him up. Trust me when I say that you are the last person I want driving my son anywhere, but I’m desperate. Can you do me a favor and bring him home from orchestra? It ends at four.”


“I still can’t believe you’re letting my nephew do something as lame as orchestra. What does he even play?”


Her sister twitched. “His girlfriend convinced him, what could I do? Tell him no?”

“Yes?” Go honestly couldn’t believe they were related, sometimes. Her sister was mousy and fussy and wore sweaters that exclusively came in shades of brown, dark green, and khaki. Go had offered makeovers like, countless times over the years, but Michelle tended to take one look at Go’s bedazzler and back away slowly.


Her loss, honestly.


“Gigi, can you do it? Please?”


Hair flips were like, eighty percent of how Go communicated emotionally. She felt strongly that this was a sign of being a more highly evolved individual. “Fine, whatever. I’ll pick up your stupid son from stupid orchestra. But I’m taking him to Now You Have Supplies, I need more mice.”


Michelle rolled her eyes. “Fine. Buy all the mice you want. Just pay for them, I don’t need George Michael getting another demonstration of how you shoplift rodents with your vagina, once was more than enough, and I’m not paying for another tetanus shot.”


Go shrugged. She’d just steal Michelle’s card, no biggie.




Go’s first wedding (and maybe it’s a little telling that she remembers them as weddings, not husbands, but that thought won’t occur to her until years later) was senior year. She wore her prom dress and made her parents buy out the same rec center where the school had junior prom, and it totally wasn’t designed to “emotionally recreate getting knocked up” or whatever Michelle had called it. Still, Steve was willing to rent a tux, and when the divorce went through before graduation, he kept the kid, and Go supposed she should chalk that whole fiasco up as a wash.


Her second wedding was to make Michelle jealous, frankly. It was also to distract her, to make her stop crying all the time because Tracey was dead. The theme was “the new millennium” and her dress was that perfect shade of pink and Michelle was the maid of honor, even if she quit a few times during the bachelorette party.


Go’s in that post wedding rutt now though, because she can’t even remember number three, and her husband is off somewhere doing something with seals. She isn’t going to bother getting divorced until she sees him again, because maybe he’s tolerable, maybe he’s perfect enough that this one will last.


“Hey!” A voice carries across the magic shop, rich in that girlie way that Go’s noticed women have when they’re a little drunk, and oh god.


“Toni! Hey-” Go starts, because she might know that she and Toni are rivals but Toni always does this, acts like they’re friends and-


“-Go! Lady, you were on FIRE at the Central Theatre last month.” Toni sticks out a first and Go has to bump it, she can’t leave Toni hangining, “-You should come by the Gothic Castle later, we can have a girl’s night.”


The thing about Toni Wonder is, Go’s not great with girl friends. And Toni is convinced they are. Friends, she means. Something about solidarity between lady magicians in the face of douchebags that assume they’re assistants, which Go totally could get behind, those guys suck and are the reason a solid 60% of her illusions are motivated by spite.


“Oh, is this little guy with you?” Toni has found George Michael and is doing a little half squat, and Go recognizes herself in that stance, because that’s the squat she does when confronted with a child. It’s the squat of ‘I’m a cool aunt and not a mom, ew’ and something in her chest does a funny squeezing motion seeing Toni do it.


George Michael’s eyes dart between the two of them, and Go has to hold her hands at her side to stop herself from poking George Michael and whispering a reminder to be cool. “Hey! I like your jacket. Leathery.”


Right, George Michael has never been cool a day in his life.


“We’re just here for some mice,” Go explains. Toni nods and lifts up her own box.


George Michael grins. “Say what you will about America, but thirteen dollars still gets you a hell of a lot of mice.”


Toni frowns. “Who said anything bad about America?” She cracks a moment later, winking at Go and god, is the shop air conditioning even working? “I’m just kidding, America is a cesspool of crass capitalism and genocide.”


Go doesn’t know half of those words. “See you later, Toni! Come on, George Michael.” She pulls her nephew out of the store, even as she can see his mouth opening to start telling Toni about his ethics teacher and her crush on Saddam Hussain. Toni doesn’t need Bluth weirdness in her life. Nobody does.


It isn’t until later that Go realizes she never paid for her mice.