Free Skating Over the Line by Joelle Charbonneau

father, and he was looking more than a little freaked.
    Stan’s eyes flew to me. “Help me,” he shouted. “Your grandfather has gone over the edge.”
    Pop took a step toward the kitchen table. He crashed the lid of the copper pot against the skillet, sending tremors of sound dancing through my skull.
    â€œPop, what are you doing?” I asked in what I hoped was a reasonable-sounding voice.
    My grandfather glared at my father and waved the pot lid at him. “Ya fauh ole my eech.”
    I blinked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYa fauh ole my eech! I eed my eech.”
    A giggle bubbled up inside me and hiccupped out. My father glared in my direction, as if daring me to laugh. I clenched my hands at my sides and bit my tongue, but it didn’t help. A glance at my tube-socked grandfather and my wild-eyed father burst the dam of hilarity.
    My grandfather turned and looked at me with hurt-filled eyes. My father stood upright and crossed his arms. He shook his head and gave a loud sigh, which made me laugh even harder.
    I knew I shouldn’t have been laughing. My grandfather was upset. I should have been helping him. Only, I couldn’t stop myself. My father was pinned against faded floral wallpaper with a geriatric version of Apollo Creed shouting nonsense while waving a pan at him. Call me crazy, but it was funny.
    The two men stared at me until my stomach ached, but finally the giggles were gone.
    â€œOkay,” I said, a little breathless from my laughing jag. “Let’s sort this out before someone around here hears the noise and calls the cops.”
    I could only imagine Sean Holmes’s reaction to this scene. Just the thought that he might show up made any trace of amusement subside.
    â€œStan, tell me what you did that made Pop so upset.”
    My father squared his shoulders and said, “I think you should call me ‘Dad.’ ‘Stan’ sounds so formal.”
    He smiled.
    I glared and shook my head. We were not going to discuss our lack of father-daughter understanding while my grandfather paced in his underwear. I just wasn’t going to do it.
    Stan gave me a forlorn look and sighed. “I didn’t do anything. One minute I was unpacking my things and the next your grandfather was yelling and throwing pots at my head. Are you sure he should be living alone, Rebecca? Doreen says there are some vacant rooms at the home.”
    The mention of the home sent the pot lid and the frying pan crashing together. “Cahm hur sho I cun peddle youah ash.”
    â€œStop it, Pop,” I yelled above the kitchen cymbals. “No one is going to paddle anyone’s ass.” At least that’s what I think Pop said.
    Pop turned to look at me. He grinned. I winced. Pop looked like he’d lost a bet with a drunken dentist. This could mean only one thing.
    â€œStan,” I said, turning toward my father. “What did you do with my grandfather’s teeth?”
    â€œNothin’…” My father’s voice trailed off. His eyes widened as he asked, “Were they in that glass upstairs?”
    Pop waved his pan.
    I nodded.
    A trail of red crept up Stan’s neck. “Oh. Well, you see, I was putting my stuff in the bathroom and saw someone had left a glass up there. I wanted to be a good roommate, so I brought it downstairs to be washed.”
    He gave us a smile bright enough to power Springfield.
    Pop wasn’t impressed. “Whe-ah ah mah eech?”
    Stan looked at me for translation.
    â€œWhere are Pop’s teeth?” I was becoming fluent in Gummish.
    My father flipped open the dishwasher. Pop’s eyes narrowed as Stan rummaged through the dishes. Several agonizing seconds later, my father stood up with Pop’s dentures in his palm.
    Pop dropped the pot lid on the counter, snatched the fake teeth out of Stan’s hand, and stormed away, still clutching the frying pan. I wasn’t sure what he planned to do with