Free Can You Keep a Secret? by R. L. Stine

time, before Johnny went into the army. We had good times. Lou’s favorite thing is to lie on the couch and watch sports on TV. He doesn’t care what the sport is. It doesn’t matter. He always falls asleep after about twenty minutes.”
    We started up the concrete steps to Eddie’s house. It was a narrow gray shingle house with black shutters. The paint was peeling on some of the shutters, and one rain gutter was tilting off the roof at the side of the house.
    “Of course, Lou’s been totally depressed since he was suspended,” Eddie said, lowering his voice as we crossed the front stoop. “Depressed and angry.”
    I heard country music pouring from the open front window. And a man’s voice from inside, shouting to someone in another room, “How can you burn spaghetti?” Followed by a woman’s laughter.
    Eddie pushed the front door open and led the way inside. There was no front hallway. We stood in a small, cluttered living room. A fat brown armchair had a stack of magazines on a square table beside it. A matching brown couch faced a flat-screen TV, a soccer match on the screen. The mantel over the narrow fireplace was lined with family snapshots.
    Eddie’s stepfather had a phone to his ear and was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He nodded hello, but kept talking. He was a tall, nice-looking man with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair brushed straight back, tanned cheeks, and round blue-gray eyes. He had a black-and-white Shadyside Police T-shirt pulled down over ragged denim cutoff shorts.
    “My hearing is a month away,” he said into the phone. “Can you believe what they’re doing to me? Another month I’ve got to live like this?” He kept gesturing with his free hand, as if the person on the other end was here in the room.
    Shaking his head, Eddie guided me into the kitchen. It was bright with white cabinets and a long white counter. Eddie’s mom turned from the stove where she was boiling a big pot of spaghetti. “Emmy? Nice to meet you,” she said with a warm smile, waving her wooden spoon.
    She was really young looking. She had Eddie’s wavy dark hair and gray eyes. She was short and very thin, in dark straight-leg jeans and a red-and-white-striped top. “Monday is spaghetti night,” she said. “Hope you like pasta. I make a very spicy tomato sauce.”
    “Love it,” I said.
    Lou’s voice boomed in the other room. I could hear the floorboards creaking under his heavy footsteps.
    “Lou is ranting again,” Mrs. Kovacs said, turning back to the boiling pot. “He’s talking to his brother up in Buffalo. But his brother can’t help him. He’s a pharmacist. He can only tsk-tsk.”
    “Lou just likes to rant,” Eddie said, smiling.
    “Actually, that’s not true,” his mom said seriously. “He … he’s so upset, he can’t stop himself.” Her voice caught. “And I think he has a right to be upset. I mean, they haven’t treated him well. Not at all. And he’s been on the force for over ten years.”
    I turned as Lou came bursting into the kitchen, his face red, waving his phone in front of him. “Tony didn’t know what to say,” he told Mrs. Kovacs.
    She stirred the pot without turning around. “Your brother means well, but he never knows what to say.”
    “He told me to be patient!” Lou exclaimed. “Do you believe that? Be patient? If I wanted advice like that, I’d open a fortune cookie.”
    His eyes went wide, as if he didn’t realize I was there. “Sorry, Emmy,” he said. He reached out and shook my hand. He had a huge hand, and I don’t think he meant to squeeze my hand so hard. I mean, he practically crushed it.
    “Eddie told me about your … uh … trouble,” I said. Awkward.
    Lou opened a cabinet, pulled out a box of Ritz Crackers, and began tossing them into his mouth. “Yeah. Trouble,” he muttered bitterly.
    “Go ahead. Spoil your appetite,” Mrs. Kovacs said without turning around.
    “When is the last time I spoiled my