Free Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A. S. King

dead!”
    A thousand Charlies know this.
    But they don’t have to come to terms with it. I do.

NEW YEAR’S DAY
    We’re at Uncle Caleb’s house for our traditional New Year’s Day meal. I’m sitting next to Jessie, my fluffy cousin, and her little brother, Frankie, who isn’t paying attention to what’s going on at the table because he’s watching the muted football game on TV.
    “I don’t get it,” my cousin Jessie says. “You could probably get into a good school, Veer.”
    “Yeah, but what does that mean , you know?” I ask, although I’m not asking. We’ve been through this before.
    “It means you’ll get a better job,” Aunt Kate says while shoveling a forkful of mashed potatoes smothered in sauerkraut into her mouth.
    “It means you’ll look better on paper,” says Uncle Caleb—Kate’s husband, Dad’s oldest brother.
    “I don’t care about how I look on paper.” I am so hungover I want to die. My head is throbbing. My eyes are still bloodshot. Dad either noticed and is saying nothing, or he really is the most inattentive man in the world, like Mom used to say.
    “Well, you should,” Aunt Kate says.
    I look down at my plate of pork and sauerkraut. This is proof that life is totally surreal here in our little Pennsylvania Dutch county. Who makes pork and sauerkraut a traditional lucky meal on the day after the year’s biggest traditional drinking binge?
    “I don’t see what the difference is, as long as she gets a good education,” Dad says.
    The table goes quiet and we get back to eating our good luck for the year. We are maniacal about it now, since six years ago, when we tried to change the tradition and had venison stew instead. That was the year Mom left, Jessie got sick with appendicitis, and Maw-Maw died. Last year I skipped it because I had the flu and what happened? I lost Charlie. Twice.
    Anyway, I think Dad’s right. What difference does it make what college I go to? There are idiots at Yale whose fathers get them in. There are illiterate football players at all of the state schools. Bottom line—the only thing I care about is how much my education will cost. Because Dad has made it clear that I am paying.
    Which may seem cruel, but it’s not.
    Sure beats being one of those kids at school who don’t yet understand what “college loan” means. You know the ones. They think it’s free money. Think their parents will cover it. Or they just don’t think. Then suddenly, at twenty-two, they get the payment booklet and discover that they owe a hundred grand, and they can’t buy groceries or health insurance because of the school they picked—all so they could look good on paper. (And they still can’t locate Florida on a map.)
    Sorry. Not me. I’d rather pay class by class at community college, and deliver pizza at night while I live cheap in Dad’s house. Then, when I graduate, I can actually start fresh, rather than starting with a hundred-thousand-dollar stone around my neck.
    Jessie has her heart set on Penn State. She’s one of those college football fans who chant “We are … Penn State.” She has no idea what she wants to do outside keg parties and blow jobs. I know that sounds harsh, but Jessie is just—Jessie.
    Most of the family eats quickly and goes back to watching football on TV. I look at my watch and decide to save myself from any more unsaid criticism.
    “Sorry to eat and run, but I’ve got to work at four and I need to do some stuff at home first.”
    Before anyone can say anything, I have my coat on and am out the door.
    I pull into our driveway and sit in the car for a second. The woods are still covered in a shallow layer of snow, and though everything is dead and brown, there are birds and squirrels making it move and sing. Birds always remind me that spring will come, and the brown will be green, and the dirt will sprout a million blades of grass and scrub where ticks will live and crickets and cicadas and spiders. The stream between