Free Also Known as Elvis by James Howe

thinking I deserve a medal for holding my little sister’s head for two hours while she pukes, but instead I get grief because I failed to interrupt my mom mid-meltdown with a newsflash.
    And what’s even worse, according to her, is that I didn’t call her at the restaurant so she could race right home.
    I say, “Mom.”
    She says, “What is wrong with you, Skeezie?”
    I say, “What’s wrong with me ?”
    She says, “Your sister might have been really ill.”
    I say, “Yeah, but she wasn’t.”
    She says, “But you didn’t know that.”
    I say, “But I did. Jessie throws up. Remember?”
    She says, “But I’m her mother.”
    I say, “Yeah, and I’m her brother. And I took care of it. Even after you got home. And she’s fine.”
    She doesn’t say anything to that. She just sits at the kitchen table, downing her third cup of coffee, and then calls my dad a bad name. At least I assume she’s talking about my dad.
    I glance at the clock over the stove.
    â€œI gotta go to work,” I tell her, thinking no matter what Kevin Hennessey or Becca Wrightsman or anybody else has in store for me today, it’s got to be better than this.
    â€œYou want to know why he’s here?” she says.
    â€œNot really,” I say.
    â€œOh, it’s good,” she says. “It’s rich.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” I say.
    â€œYou think he wants to come back to us?” she says. “Is that what you think?”
    She pulls a cigarette out of her purse.
    â€œCould you not smoke in the house?” I say.
    â€œWho made you the mayor?” she says.
    She puts the cigarette back.
    â€œHe came back,” she says, “to get a divorce.”
    I shrug.
    â€œHe came back to get a divorce because he wants to get married to some girl he met in Rochester.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œHe owes me money and he hardly ever sees you kids and he comes back wearing a tie and tells me he wants a divorce so he can marry some girl in Rochester.”
    My cereal has turned to mush, which I hate. I pick up the bowl and dump the whole thing in the garbage. It’s disgusting, but less disgusting than eating it.
    â€œSo I guess I don’t have to spend any quality time with him,” I say, keeping my back to her so she doesn’t see the part of me that was kind of hoping he was coming back for good. Which, to be honest, totally confuses me.
    â€œHe’s still your father,” she says. “He has a legalright to see you. And besides, he wants to talk with you about something. He wouldn’t say what, just said it was time you two talked man to man.”
    Omigod, not The Talk. Anything but The Talk.
    â€œWell, I can’t see him today,” I say. “I’m working the lunch shift, and then Zachary asked me to come over and hang out. And then—”
    â€œHe’s going fishing with Del today,” she says. Del is an old high school friend of my dad’s. “He wants to spend the day with you tomorrow. I told him fine.”
    My cheeks burn so hot you could fry eggs on them. “Who told you that you could tell him fine?” I say, turning to face her. “Maybe I don’t want to see my dad. Or maybe, just maybe, I want to decide when I’m going to see him.”
    â€œDon’t get all het up,” my mom says, using one of my grandma’s expressions. “You can spare one day out of your busy social life to see your father.”
    This is too stinkin’ much!
    â€œSocial life?” I go. “I’m working all the time, remember? And when I’m not working, I’m takingcare of your daughters. You’re out eating garlic knots while I’m watching Jessie upchuck pizza into the toilet. It’s a good thing it flushes, thanks to money I earned!”
    My mom looks at me like I slapped her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is