Free Sway by Amber McRee Turner

that is.
    â€œCass! I need your help!” my dad yelled. Dad never rhymed, not even by accident.
    I closed up the beauty box, the cell phone still inside, and headed outside to find Dad trying to yank the blue cover off The Roast. He was already in a sweat.
    â€œI thought I could do it in one grab,” he said, pulling off his T-shirt to wipe his face. The contrast between Dad’s tan arms and his white chest made him look like he was wearing another shirt underneath. His curly brown hair was fluffed out like he’d run his fingers through it a million times. Even his beard was all mussed up.
    â€œWant a sip?” Dad grabbed a bottle of Yoo-hoo from off a lawn chair and twisted it open.
    It made me even madder at him that he would drink something as cheerful-sounding as Yoo-hoo on such a sad day.
    â€œNo thanks,” I said.
    As he gave it a guzzle, the morning sun lit up the gray-brown flecks in his eyes.
    â€œYou mind helping me uncover this thing?” he said.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “But…why?”
    â€œSo we can clean it up,” he said. “Now, you take that corner, and I’ll get this one.”
    As I reluctantly grabbed a handful of cover while trying to avoid blotches of mildew and bird blech, the thought crossed my mind to be glad that Dad might very well be planning to sell the beast; but it crossed my mind real fast, because my mind was a busy street full of other bigger thoughts. Like how I could figure out a way to talk to Mom again. To steal her back away from Ken and the not-really orphans. How when she waved good-bye to them, her little Cass silhouette charm would ting in the Florida sunshine. Then she’d come make things right with Dad, and press the unpause button on all my plans.
    And until that day, how in the world was Aunt Jo’s storm cellar going to hold all the bads in my head, including the one that was about to jump out of my mouth.
    â€œDid you let the minutes run out on purpose?”
    â€œExcuse me?” he said.
    An angry itch spread beyond my ears and into my whole face.
    â€œWhy’d you have to hide the phone from me? Why won’t you let me talk to Mom?”
    Dad dropped his corner to the ground.
    â€œTwo words,” he said. “Surplus suffering.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s kind of like that time you wanted to play storm rescue and put on a whole box of Band-Aids at once,” he explained.
    â€œBut you told me no.”
    â€œExactly, because I knew they’d pull all the fuzz out of your arms and make you hurt more than what a Dad should ever allow his daughter to go through.”
    He picked up his corner again.
    â€œAnd frankly, Cass, you talking to your mom right now is what I would call surplus suffering.”
    Dad crumpled the blue plastic in his fists and said, “Now pull!”
    We both grunted and snorted as we yank-yank-yanked the cover into a pile, sending a puff of shower-curtain smell all around us. Then Dad grabbed the half-empty Yoo-hoo bottle, held it by the tip, and waved it in the air, saying, “It’s no sparkling grape juice, but fit for a christening such as this.”
    â€œChristening?” I said.
    â€œYou know, like sending a ship off on its first journey,” he said, and smacked The Roast three solid times before the Yoo-hoo bottle shattered against it, spattering the side with watery chocolate.
    â€œWhat journey?”
    The lift in his voice sure didn’t sound like he was talking about a journey to the junkyard.
    â€œDidn’t I promise I’d get you out of this terribleness?” Dad said, tossing the jagged Yoo-hoo neck toward the garbage and missing, landing it in the grass. “Well, three days from now, we’ll be blasting off, Casstronaut. Just you, me, and The Roast,” he announced, trying to hug an arm around my shoulder. But I backed away just out of reach.
    â€œYou. Me. The Roast. Three days?” I