Free Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet by Sherri L. Smith

fryer. The door is up, revealing his little campsite and a host of Ana's dad's tools. Besides being an architect, Ana's dad fancies himself a carpenter. He built the Samoan's tree house last year. Ana wishes he'd built one for her when she was Sammy's age.
    “What's up, sweet pea?” Grandpa White asks when she enters. Ana shakes her head, but she can still hear the arguing going on inside.
    “If Grandma and Nai Nai don't stop bickering, we'll never have anything for dinner.” She walks past the workbenches to the big white freezer chest in the back of the garage and puts the pork chops inside. “Just this once, why can't everyone behave?”
    Grandpa White shakes his head. He looks awfully serious for a man wearing a boss of the sauce apron. “Those women wouldn't know what to do if they couldn't argue. Why did God give them tongues?” He raises his eyes to heaven wearily. Ana drops her head to the top of the freezer, resting her cheek against the cool white metal with a sigh.
    “It's worse than that, you know? It's like watching Chelsea's parents when they used to fight. Like little family earthquakes. Maybe one day everything will just shake apart.” She looks down at the scratched surface of the freezer, her eyes stinging just a tiny bit. “What is with this family? Nobody likes anybody else. You all just pretend to.”
    Grandpa White shrugs. “I like them just as far as they like me. And you.”
    “Well, it sucks for dinner parties. Sometimes I think if Sammy and I weren't around, none of you guys would feel the need to get together and there'd be a little less fighting in the world.”
    Grandpa White looks at her, tongs balanced across one knee, fried chicken in the deep fryer in front of them bubbling away. Then he smiles.
    “Baby girl, that's ridiculous.” He shrugs and goes back to turning his chicken. “The two of you kids are our common ground, and that is a beautiful thing.”
    “That's me: Ana Shen, granddaughter, diplomat, peacemaker. Oh yeah, and salutatorian.”
Sigh.
She stands up and paces across the garage.
    Ana remembers the way Jamie Tabata's father looked down his nose at her. Obviously, he has someone more Amanda Conrad–like in mind for his son. Wouldn't that be great? If she and Jamie ever
did
date, Ana's not so sure she could deal with the parental garbage.
    Grandpa White checks the thermometer on the fryer. “Well, cheer up, baby girl, 'cause things are just about to get a whole lot better.” He smiles at her proudly. “Chicken's ready. You've never seen anyone fighting when they're eating fried chicken.”
    “Not sure that's a real test of the situation, Grandpa White.”
    “But it's true.” He nods and picks up his tongs again. He drops the last drumstick in. The oil spatters, hot and snappy. Ana leans back, even though she's out of popping range. Grandpa White acts like he's made of asbestos. If he gets hit by the hot grease, it doesn't show.
    “Want that drumstick?” he asks, pulling the first batch out of the fryer to rest on a plateful of paper towels.
    “I don't think I can eat just yet. But I'll take a hug.”
    “Oh, well, those are ready to go too.”
    At least one grandfather likes her. Ana wraps her arms around him. Grandpa White smells like shoe polish and menthol. He likes to say the military taught him to shine his shoes until they look like glass and the AARP taught him to use mentholated cream to ease the pain of picking up the shoes. Ana kisses his cheek and then braces herself to go back inside. Less than two hours to go, and there's plenty left to do.
    “Want something to drink? There's fresh iced tea.”
    “Let it get nice and cold first. I'll be in soon with the chicken.”
    “Okay. See you at the table.”

    The phone starts to ring the minute Ana enters the hallway.
    “Telephooooone!” Sammy screams out of nowhere. He explodes down the stairs and rushes past her through the kitchen door. Ana shakes her head.
    “I'll get it,” she shouts, but