Free Shug by Jenny Han

and the check for Celia’s SAT prep course bounced.
    Celia’s pacing back and forth in the kitchen, and Mama’s sitting at the table holding a wet washcloth to her forehead. I stand in the doorway, ready to jump in, smooth things over.
    “It’s not the end of the world,” Mama says. “You still have plenty of time.”
    Celia shakes her head so furiously her dangly crystal earrings swing back and forth. I love those earrings. If Celiaever died, God forbid, they are what I’d want. To remember her by, and all. “It’s gonna be all your fault when I go to Lincoln Community College, Mama,” she rages. “You talk a big talk about Annemarie and me leaving this town, but deep down I think you wanna keep us here. You want us to be miserable just like you.”
    “Oh, Celia. Always the drama queen, aren’t you, darlin’? I’m really gettin’ sick of you and your lady-of-the-manor routine.” Mama sips from her tall glass of iced tea. I hope it’s just sweet tea, but I have a feeling it’s Long Island.
    “I hate you,” Celia says quietly. I know she means it.
    “Of course you do. You’re sixteen.”
    Celia runs upstairs, and I follow her. I creep into her room, where she’s sitting on the bed, staring out the window. “Get out,” she says. She doesn’t even look at me.
    Sitting down next to her, I say, “Aw, come on, Celia. You can still take the class next month, right?” I pat her on the shoulder awkwardly.
    Celia acts like she doesn’t hear me. “When I get out of here, I’m never coming back.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or herself, and I’m a little scared.
    “You don’t mean that. You’re just mad right now.”
    “You’re such a little baby. You don’t understand anything. Our family sucks. I’m never coming back.”
    I recoil. “How can you say that? You’re my sister.”
    She finally looks at me then, and her green eyes are sad. “You’ve gotta grow up, Shug. You’ve gotta see people for who they are. I can’t keep on taking care of you forever.”
    “Taking care of me?” I repeat. “You’re never even home. I’m the one taking care of things around here.”
    “I’m so sick of caring about what happens. Nothing ever changes.” She stares out the window some more, then says, “Just get out, Annemarie.”
    “Fine.” I stalk out of her room and go to mine.
    I’m almost done with my homework when Mama calls us down for supper. She’s gone to the grocery store and gotten pork chops and applesauce and baked potatoes with sour cream. I’m surprised that she’s cooked, but I know why. She cooks when she knows she’s done wrong by us, when she wants to make amends without actually saying sorry. Which she never does—say sorry, I mean.
    I know a good thing when I see it. A real dinner is plenty apology enough for me. I lean close to the plate and breathe in the smell of sizzling pork and cinnamon apples.
    “Where’s your sister?” Mama’s only got one pork chop on her plate and a dab of apple sauce. I’ll know that I’ll probably be finishing her leftovers because Mama never really eats when she’s been drinking.
    Dipping a pork chop in apple sauce, I say, “She went over to Margaret’s house. Not that I blame her.”
    “Don’t you start on me too.”
    “I’m just sayin’. The SATs are a pretty big deal. I can see why she’s mad. Couldn’t you have been more careful, Mama? I mean, you shoulda known how much was in the checking account. And then you didn’t even say sorry …” She glares at me, and I stuff half a pork chop in my mouth to keep from saying anything else.
    “I do the best I can by you girls.” Sighing heavily, Mama cuts into her pork chop and takes a small bite. She doesn’t say anything more, and in this light, the circles under her eyes look dark and bleak. She looks old.
    I feel guilty for harping on her, but I’m still able to finish the rest of my supper with gusto. My mother hardly ever cooks, so when she does, it feels