Free Life Is Funny by E. R. Frank

of her staying calm. She sighs some dramatic sigh and storms out of my room. I walk into the hallway and begin to count to myself, in Mississippis. Usually I don’t get up to twenty before she’s yelling about something else. Boom. On eleven she starts up from her room.
    â€œIt’s six,” she complains. “It’s Wednesday!”
    â€œYou said six-thirty last week,” I answer from my spot in the hall. I’ve stood there so much there’s a worn patch on the wood floor under my feet.
    â€œSix o’clock!” She stomps into view. “Why do you always have to make everything so hard for me? Damn it. You do this on purpose.”
    I walk slow down the hall from our apartment to Walker’s, wondering why the neighbors don’t complain about me and my mom. I know they hear her. They used to hear me, but I stopped yelling back a while ago. Walker’s as bad as the neighbors. He acts like he doesn’t know anything either, but I bet he does.
    â€œTime for dinner,” I tell him when he opens his door. He’s tall and skinny and has a goatee.
    â€œI thought we decided six-thirty.”
    â€œTalk to her,” I answer.
    He’s quiet for a minute, looking at me.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œShe just got home,” I explain. “Nothing’s even ready yet.”
    â€œWe’ll order pizza.”
    Later, through all of my mom’s bitching about how she’s going to have to miss work to take me to my call, Walker congratulates me.
    â€œWell, I didn’t get anything yet,” I go.
    â€œYou got a call,” my mom says. “And I’m sure you’ll get the job, whatever it is. Walker’s absolutely right. Congratulations.”
    â€œIf I get it,” I hear myself asking, “can I invite Ebony and China over to celebrate?”
    â€œAnother slice?” my mother offers Walker.
    He looks over at me. “What about it, Judy?” he asks my mom. “Can she?”
    â€œNo more?” My mom picks up the last slice with the tips of her fingers. “I’ll eat it then.”
    Walker and I clean up the kitchen while she takes her shower.
    â€œShe’s racist,” I tell Walker, handing him a dish towel and a wet plate.
    â€œI wouldn’t say that,” Walker answers.
    â€œShe is. That’s why she doesn’t like them.”
    â€œI don’t think your mom’s racist.”
    â€œWhy does she hate my friends then?”
    Walker concentrates on drying. He makes the plate squeak, he rubs so hard.
    â€œShe acted like she didn’t even hear me.”
    â€œShe has a lot on her mind,” he says.
    A plate slips from my fingers, and for a second Walker and I freeze. There’s no telling how long my mom will go off if it breaks. But it just clatters in those edge-to-edge circles on the floor until I manage to grab it into silence. We hold still for a while, listening to see if she heard anything from the shower. Nothing.
    â€œHow can you stand her?” I ask him.
    For a minute I think he might slap me. Instead he puts his hands on my shoulders. “I love her,” he says. “And so do you.”
    *  *  *
    The next day I bring a note to my homeroom teacher excusing me from school after fourth period. When the bell rings, me and China and Ebony sneak out the fire doors to Ebony’s house for lunch. Her mom is cool with us leaving school grounds to eat sandwiches instead of cafeteria food. She’s finishing her coffee when we walk in.
    â€œCongratulations, Grace!” She smiles.
    â€œIt’s just a call,” I say. “I don’t have the job yet or anything.”
    â€œY’all hungry?” she asks, putting her coffee mug into the sink and grabbing plates and glasses to put around the table. Me and Ebony and China start pulling bologna and tomatoes and stuff out of the refrigerator.
    â€œIf I get it,” I say before I can