Free Triangles by Ellen Hopkins Page B

and fireworks. Can’t get much more “God Bless the USA” than that.
    Trace stomps into the kitchen, carrying a book. Mom. You left this on the patio.
    When did you start reading this crap?
    Holly laughs. I wouldn’t call it “crap,” exactly. But it’s definitely not great literature. She shows me the not-lit in question. The cover pictures a cowboy riding a horse under a full moon, juxtaposed 199/881
    with a schoolmarmish woman in a low-cut dress. “ Widows along the Trail ? What is it, exactly? A western romance? When did you start reading that crap?” She glances toward Trace, whose head is completely immersed in the fridge.
    Drops her voice very low. Remember I told you I wanted to write… She mouths the word erotica. Well, I joined a writers’
    group and two of the ladies write romance.
    Some of it’s pretty… whispers, steamy.
    I’ve been looking into it—reading a little of it—and I think I could write it too.
    She looks at me expectantly. I’m not sure how to respond, though. “Wow.
    I thought the writing thing was a joke.” Trace emerges from the refrigerator.
    Oh, no. She’s serious about it. Like she was serious about painting.
    And before that, ceramics. And before that, hydroponic gardening. And before that, hosting fantasy birthday parties.
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    This is different, Holly insists. Because I could actually make money writing.
    At least, eventually. I mean, I have to get good at it. But I’m willing to work hard. Wouldn’t it be cool to get paid for making up stories about … you know?
    THAT EARNS
    A major eye roll from Trace,
    who clomps across the polished
    tile to the table, nibbling a cold
    chicken leg. You want to write
    racy books, Mom? Why not a nice paranormal? Or maybe zombies.
    Oh, says Holly, they have those too.
    They’re not all westerns, you know.
    I think she missed his point.
    “Not sure I’d want to read about
    hot zombies. I mean flesh eaters
    aren’t exactly what I’d call sexy.” Guess it depends on what kind
    of flesh they’re eating. Deadpan.
    I spit my mouthful of coffee
    halfway across the table.
    Trace! But Holly’s laughing too, as she hands me a paper towel.
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    He rolls his eyes back and forth
    between us, grinning. Just saying …
    WHEN DID HE GROW UP?
    When was the last time I really
    looked at him?
    talked to him?
    acknowledged him?
    He used to tag along sometimes
    on the girls’ playdates.
    to the girls’ parties.
    with the girls to the movies.
    Seems my view of him has been
    filtered through the girls.
    colored by his mother.
    distanced by distractions.
    Somehow, over the past decade
    he has stretched tall.
    he has muscled up.
    he has come into his own.
    And all that makes me wonder
    what else I’ve ignored.
    what else I’ve slept through.
    what else I’ve missed.
    While I let my own life slip away.
    AS I MUSE
    Jace cruises into the kitchen,
    polished brass hair sleep-tousled.
    He is shirtless and wears only
    a thin pair of flannel shorts
    beneath his smooth-skinned
    chest. He comes over to Holly,
    kisses her cheek, draws his
    black walnut eyes even with mine.
    Morning, ladies. Then, to Holly: Thanks for letting me sleep in.
    Trace is the image of his father,
    except for the narrow high-bridged
    nose inherited from Holly. He says, Did you see what Mom’s reading, Dad? He’s a trouble caster too.
    Jace picks up the book, opens
    it, turns to a page somewhere
    about halfway in. Skims it for
    a second or two. Holy lima beans!
    Hope you’re picking up pointers.
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    Holy lima beans? Half amusing,
    half confusing. And very Jace,
    whose Kansas roots cling to him,
    though his parents moved him west
    as a kid, close to forty years ago.
    He puts down the book, heads
    toward the coffee maker, and
    I can’t not notice the attractive
    outline of his butt beneath his clingy shorts. He pours a cup of brew, and as he turns, I have to force myself to look higher than his waistband.
    God, I’m almost as bad as his wife.
    Then again, I do have