Free Backlash by Sarah Littman Page B

which is often.
    But today, the sacred gathering around the big screen is on — well, kind of. At least we’re all in the same room, sitting around in front of the television, with the game on, pretending that we’re watching it together. Bree checks her cell phone every few minutes. Mom has her iPad on her lap to check work emails and browse real estate websites, but she’s smart enough to look up and comment about game plays often enough to keep Dad happy.
    I don’t know why Dad insists on this whole family football deal. If you ask me, everyone would be a whole lot happier if he just let us do our own thing. But gathering around the TV to watch guys throw the pigskin is Dad’s thing with a capital T . So we do it.
    The camera focuses in on the cheerleaders, who are totally hot in their short shorts, crop tops, and knee-high leather boots.
    “Don’t they get cold when the game’s in, like, November?” I ask. “I mean, they’re not exactly, you know, wearing a lot .”
    “Is that so?” Dad chuckles, glancing over at Mom. “I can’t say I noticed.”
    My mother makes a pfft sound and rolls her eyes.
    “That reminds me, cheerleading tryouts are this week,” she says to Bree. “Do you want to go through your routine with me before dinner?”
    “No,” Bree says right away.
    She couldn’t be more obvious about wanting to kill that idea in a hurry.
    Still, I don’t blame Bree. Mom’s a frustrated cheerleader. She shows up at all the games with the school colors painted on her cheeks, like she’s trying to live out her regret that she didn’t make the cheerleading squad in high school through my sister. It makes me want to crawl under the bleachers — but if I say anything, she’s like, “Come on, don’t you have any school spirit?”
    “Why not, Bree?” Mom persists.
    “I just don’t, okay?”
    “Bree, I —”
    “Can’t this wait till halftime?” Dad says.
    I can’t tell if he’s really upset that we can’t hear the commentator, or if he’s trying to shut them down before this turns into World War III, like so many conversations between Bree and Mom do these days.
    “Yeah, it totally can,” Bree says, giving Mom a pointed look. “I’m gonna make some popcorn.”
    “Don’t forget the butter,” I remind her.
    “Not too much,” Mom says. “It’s already butter flavored.”
    “But that’s fake butter,” I complain. “Real butter tastes better.”
    Bree makes a disgusted noise and escapes to the kitchen to avoid the butter war.
    Dad says, “Can we go for five minutes without arguing about something so I can actually watch the game? Timer starting … now.”
    He looks at his watch. I turn my attention back to the game. Dad must be feeling lucky today. I’m pretty sure the longest we’ve ever gone without an argument is three minutes, ten seconds.

I F THE mayor’s speech goes on much longer I’m going to fall asleep on the stage. And seeing as how there are photographers from local papers and online news sites here, that will not go down well with Mom. Or His Honor, Mayor Robinson. But seriously, how many political speeches can one teenager be expected to stay awake for at a single event? So far we’re at eight and counting … Any more have got to count as cruel and unusual punishment.
    It would be one thing if they actually said something interesting. But every single speech consists of the politician thanking all the other politicians and the people gathered to listen, before wrapping up with five minutes or more of bland generalizations about how proud they are to serve and democracy is great and blah blah blah God bless our town and the United States of America.
    Because we’re in the front row, I can’t even check Facebook or Instagram or even send #Imbored selfies to my friends. I have to try to stay awake and look attentive, like the perfect politician’s daughter.
    Syd, who is on the other side of Dad, looks like she’s struggling, too. We exchange a glance of