Free Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser Page B

pretty boy looks—dark hair, god-given athletic build (shithead doesn’t even have to work out), even has a fucking dimple in his cheek. Maybe he just thinks she’s a woof. Sure, she’s a little on the chubbo side, but it’s not something puberty won’t fix. And the thing is she knows she’s chubbo and those kinds of girls, they think they’re not all that, so even when they thin out and get hot, they’re still thinking they’re nothing. That’s why it’s good to get them now so they think, “Wow, he liked me back when I was all fugly and shit.”
    But Kyle doesn’t get that. Holy fuck, she’s leaning forward now, her tits almost in his face, and he’s ignoring them. Jesus. It shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. Even when we do our thing and I let him share, he’s not that into it. He swears he’s straight. So I guess he’s just a pussy.
    Like before we came here, there was a girl—Sarah. Totally into him, totally wanted his shit. Not who I would have picked for him, which I told him. Which he ignored. If I were choosing, I would have picked the girl who lived next door to us: cute little thing, black hair down to her tiny shoulder blades, not much makeup except for pink gloss. Instead, he chose this girl with “natural” bleach-blond hair. Natural my ass. Wore jeans with a hole in the knee, shirts that fell off the shoulder. Fuck, she had slut written all over her. “Don’t talk about her like that,” Kyle whined. “She’s cool. She reads poetry. She’s into Dylan Thomas.” I didn’t care if she published her own damn poetry book, the girl was a whore and how Kyle didn’t see this or care was crazy.
    He ignored me every time I tried to bring this up. Just took out the damn controllers and started on the Wii. Then, the day before he brought her home for the first time—the only time—he snapped. Threw the controller across the room. “Shit, Alex, can’t you just let it go? Just because all your girlfriends are hos doesn’t mean Sarah is. Okay?” I didn’t bother answering him. Just left the room. What was the point in arguing, when I could just show him.
    The day he brings her home, Mother Dearest decides to be Super Mommy. She’d broken up with her guy du jour and spent the week watching sappy chick flicks. This always transforms her into one of those fifties moms—the ones who actually pretend to like their kids, who ask about their day, who wear clothes that cover their tits and cooch (when they’re not doing their stripper gig, anyway).
    “Hi, honey,” she said, apron-clad, voice smooth as Cool Whip, when Kyle brought Sarah home.
    “Hi, Mrs. Miller,” said Sarah, smiling, extending a hand to our mother.
    “Well, aren’t you sweet? Can I fix you kids something?” Mom asked, and I rolled my eyes. The way she said it would make anyone think this was how our house functioned, like our mother wore that stupid-ass Something’s Cookin’ apron every day, like she gave a damn about us on a regular basis.
    I would have told her to fuck off right there, but Kyle bringing a girl home was an event in itself. He smiled at
my mom, playing nice for Sarah’s sake. “Sure, Mom. Whatever’s good.”
    “Oh, baby,” she said, laughing, “everything’s good.”
    Kyle clenched his fist by his side at this, and I coughed a little too loudly. I mean, who was she kidding? More than half of the food in the fridge was past expiration. That’s why we had enough take-out menus to wallpaper the kitchen. Anyway, while mom busied herself in the kitchen, Kyle took Sarah to our room. Since it was Kyle, I figured they’d just be playing video games for the next half hour, but when I got upstairs, I saw them dry humping, her hands rubbing his back, her eyes closed while he kissed her. They didn’t see me and I waited until Kyle finished and went to use the bathroom. Her shirt was still unbuttoned when I walked in and she scrambled to pull herself together.
    “Hi,” she said, blushing.
    “I’m