Free My Mother Got Married by Barbara Park

went up to the attic and pulled out the box of pictures my mother had put away? The ones of her and Dad and me. And that I stared at them and tried to remember.
    And that sometimes my eyes clouded up. Not often, but it still happened. Should I tell him that, too?
    B EN HONKED his horn. Reluctantly I walked downstairs and closed the front door behind me.
    I got into the truck. Ben leaned over and gave me a pat on the knee.
    I forced a smile, but it wasn’t easy. The thing is, I don’t even like fishing. It was Ben’s idea. I know this doesn’t make me seem like much of an outdoorsman, but it’s true. The first time I ever went fishing I hooked my father in the neck and he took my pole away. The second time I caught a pair of boxer shorts and a plastic bag.
    Ben pulled out of the driveway and turned on the radio. “Thought we’d go to Lake Murky,” he said. “Ever been there?”
    I nodded. Lake Murky. That’s where I had caught my boxer shorts.
    It wasn’t a very long drive, but the two of us didn’t talk much. Ben and I never do. My mother says he’s not much of a talker, but I couldn’t help wondering if he just didn’t like me. Once the two of us were stuck in the car while Mom ran into the grocery store. Ben cleared his throat twice. It was one of our best conversations.
    When we finally got to the lake, we unloaded the fishing gear from the back of the truck. Then we walked down to the boathouse. Ben bought some sandwiches and other stuff from the cooler and then rented a small motorboat.
    You could tell he’d done a lot of fishing up there. Once we were in the boat, he knew right where to go. He drove to this little cove about ten minutes from the dock and turned off the engine.
    “Best fishing spot on the lake,” he informed me as he handed me a pole. Then he reached into the bait box and pulled out a fat wiggly red earthworm. It was the slimy kind that are squished all over the sidewalk after a hard rain.
    “Here you go,” he said.
    I felt myself start to sweat. There aren’t a lot of guys who will admit this, but worms sort of turn my stomach. I think it has something to do with them not having arms, legs, or a neck.
    For a second or two I didn’t know what to do. I tried to hold out my hand, but it just stayed tucked under my arm in a tight little fist. Meanwhile, Ben kept stretching his arm farther and farther for me to take it.
    Finally I shook my head. “Er, no thanks. I, uh, don’t use worms. I usually just use … well, uh, I just use …”
    Geez, why couldn’t I say it?
    Curiously, Ben raised his eyebrows. He was waiting.
    I ducked my head down and mumbled “Bologna” as quietly as I could into my sleeve.
    Ben stared at me a second. “Bologna?” he repeated loudly. I’m not kidding. The word bologna echoed all over the lake.
    I could feel my face turning red. What was the big deal, anyway? Last year Martin Oates caught a sea bass with a Vienna sausage.
    Ben looked at me funny but he didn’t laugh. “Sorry. No bologna. Try this.”
    He tossed me a fudge brownie that he’d bought at the boathouse. I tore off a small piece and rolled it into a ball. Then I put it on the end of my hook. I felt like I was fishing for Betty Crocker.
    For the next two hours the two of us just sat there with our poles in the water. Some fun. Most of the time I think Ben was practically asleep. Once in a while, when my bobber would move, he’d open his eyes and say, “Got a nibble?” But it didn’t actually make me feel bonded to him or anything.
    Ben was the first to get a bite. As soon as he felt the tug on the line he sat up and began reeling it in—steady and calm like you’re supposed to.
    But even though he wasn’t jumping up and down, you could tell he was getting a kick out of it. The whole time he was pulling it in, he kept whispering “Come to Papa, come to Papa.”
    “Get the net, Charlie,” he ordered. “Quick! Scoop him in.”
    I leaned over and caught the fish in the net. It