“Francis Scott Key,” said Greg.
“What?” said Brigid.
“Francis Scott Key,” he repeated. “Francis! Scott! Key!”
She blinked. “What about him?”
“Franciiiiis Scoooooott Keeeeeeeeeey!” Greg chanted. “Do you not know of this great American patriot? The immortal and beloved Francis Scott Key?”
Still staring at him as if trying to puzzle out his mind via telepathy, she said, “Well, I know about ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’ if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, oh yes, we all know of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ and who wouldn’t? But that barely begins to touch upon the greatness, the vast wonder that is the one, the only, Francis Scott Good-To-His-Mother Key. Let us take a moment of silence to ponder his greatness!” Greg closed his eyes, face turned upward as if basking in sunlight.
“What the f–”
“SHH! I’m pondering his greatness!”
“I’m pondering what a looney you are.”
“Hmph!” said Greg, opening his eyes again. “You just don’t appreciate American heroes.”
She shook her head. “Forget it. Forget it! I’m not going to burn perfectly good brain cells trying to understand you. Go off and have your little mental adventure about Francis Scott Key, I don’t want to hear about it. There’s a muffin in the other room that badly needs to be eaten, and I’m just the one to do the job.” She turned and strode quickly for the hallway.
Following on her heels, Greg chirped, “Did you know he has a bridge named after him?” But if she made any further comment, is was cut off by the door she slammed in his face.
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