Free Son of the Mob by Gordon Korman Page A

stupid football team, with not so much as a single date to show for countless hours of brutalizing practice. His shoulder pads are doing him about as much good as his virtual Ferraris. The one thing he had going for him was a best friend in exactly the same boat. We could while away our evenings and weekends plotting an end to our dweeb-hood. And now I’m with Kendra all the time, and he’s high and dry.
    He doesn’t admit this, of course. He pretends to be Kendra’s best friend. To me he uses terms like “our girlfriend” and “our relationship.”
    It bugs me. “She’s not ‘our girlfriend.’ She’s not even my girlfriend, really. We just hang out.”
    â€œNo,” he says sternly. “You and I hang out. You and Kendra take care of business.”
    I’m heating up. “We don’t ‘take care of business.’ Come to think of it, what the hell is taking care of business? Speak English!”
    â€œYou can call it whatever you like,” he says smugly. “Just so long as I get all the details.”
    It’s a sticky situation. Although no specific contract was ever signed, it was always assumed between Alex and me that each would tell the other anything that was going on vis-à-vis the fairer sex. Now that I’ve got something to share, I’m not sure I can do it. And instead of acting on a great surge of loyalty to Kendra, I basically feel like a welcher.
    As usual, an experience that is pure bliss for most people ends up being just plain complicated for me. I’m juggling Alex with one hand while trying to navigate so that I never end up in the same room with Agent Bite-Me. Then there are the Lucas, who can’t find out about this relationship either. It’s nerve-racking!
    The time with Kendra is great—almost too great. I’ve never been addicted to anything, thank God. So I couldn’t imagine how you fall into a trap like that until I started dating Kendra. When I have to see her, I just have to, and I’m willing to jump through any number of hoops to get to her. I’d feel like a complete idiot except for the fact that she’s the same way about me.
    And it doesn’t help that she’s so busy. Kendra is one of those people whose schedule always has to be jam-packed. She works at the day-care center; she writes for the Journal ; she takes advanced lifesaving at the Y; and she gives piano lessons to little kids on the side. There are CEOs with more leisure time!
    Not wanting to seem like a loser, I pretend to have just as hectic a calendar. I invent a bunch of part-time jobs to explain why I always have money, in case Kendra’s reporter’s instincts or inherited FBI-agent DNA starts to question that. It sure beats telling her the truth, that underworld kingpins pay good allowance.
    It’s not a very good sham, but it works for now. In reality, you need motivation to be as busy as Kendra, and it’s already been established by just about everybody that I don’t have any. The one thing I’m motivated to do is hang out with Kendra. Sometimes the only way to do that is to drive her places. We use the transit time wisely, making out during red lights and while stuck in traffic. I take only the most congested routes. Soon I’ve memorized every construction zone in Nassau County.
    When the Mazda’s in motion, and I have to watch the road, we speculate on the secret lives of pedestrians and our fellow drivers. I’m not that creative, but Kendra’s awesome at it. Maybe that’s why she struggles to write for the school paper. The truth is never quite as interesting as something made up.
    â€œSee that guy in the Jeep Cherokee? He’s got the spare tire stuffed with his ex-wives’ heads.”
    I point to an innocent young woman pushing a newborn in a carriage. “And she’s with the KGB.”
    â€œNo, the baby’s KGB,” she corrects me.