Free The Fourteenth Goldfish by Jennifer Holm Page A

Then my grandfather holds up his book.
    “You gonna stand around yapping all day?” my grandfather asks. “I have homework to finish.”
    My father makes risotto for dinner. We sit outside on our tiny patio, and the adults drink red wine and my grandfather and I have soda. Between the crisp air, the good food, and my parents trading gossip about theater friends, it feels like I’m watching a favorite television show. Except this time mygrandfather has a guest role as the Silent, Moody Teenager. Or maybe he isn’t acting.
    My father and grandfather have never exactly been buddies. When my parents first got married, my grandfather said some things to my father that involved the words “punk,” “my daughter,” and “knocked up.” Needless to say, there is no way we can let my dad in on the little secret about Melvin.
    My grandfather turns to my dad. “So I hear you’re an actor. How’s that working out for you?”
    “Pretty good, actually,” he says. “The tour of my production has been extended for another year.”
    “That’s wonderful, Jeremy!” my mother enthuses.
    “Congrats, Dad,” I say.
    My grandfather doesn’t look very impressed. He says, “Lots of money performing in Peoria?”
    “I’m in the union,” my dad says. “I’ve got a great benefits package.”
    My grandfather grunts.
    My dad smiles at him, faintly curious. “You remind me of someone,” he says.
    “Really,” my grandfather says. “Who?”
    “Just an old guy. One of those grumpy types. Actually, you’re distantly related to him. Guess Melvin is a family name.”
    My mom and I share a worried look.
    Then, without a word, my grandfather gets up and goes inside. My father turns to my mother.
    “Interesting kid,” he says.
    “Teenagers,” my mom says with a careless roll of her shoulders.
    “I’ll clear,” I offer, and start picking up dishes. My parents beam at me.
    I stack the plates, and what I see when I go into the kitchen almost makes me drop them: my grandfather is pouring red wine into a plastic cup.
    “What are you doing?” I hiss.
    “What does it look like I’m doing?” he says, and drinks from the cup.
    “But—but—you can’t!”
    “Why not?” he grumbles. “It’s not like I’m underage. And I need something to dull the pain. My legs are killing me.”
    The wine loosens my grandfather’s tongue, and he starts to make even more snarky remarks at the dinner table.
    “To be or not to be thirteen. That is the question,” he says.
    My parents are deep in conversation and don’t seem to notice what’s going on. We move inside because it’s getting chilly, congregating around the kitchen table.
    “I’m going to the bathroom,” my grandfather announces, and walks out.
    My mother shakes her head and turns to my dad. “Were you like this as a teenage boy?”
    “I’m not sure.” A puzzled look crosses my dad’s face. “Mostly I remember being embarrassed by my parents all the time.”
    She changes the subject. “So, spill. How’s
Francois
?” She makes air quotes with her hands when she says the name.
    Francois, I know, is the director of
Les Misérables
.
    “You mean besides having a French name but actually being from Long Island?”
    “I knew it was a fake accent!” my mom says.
    “He had a good speech coach somewhere along the line.”
    The toilet flushes.
    My father adds, “Also, his ego is bigger than a blimp.”
    The toilet flushes again.
    “Did you fix it?” my mom asks him.
    “I fixed it,” my father insists.
    I think of all the pain pills Melvin took earlier. Worry spikes through me.
    “Maybe we should check on him,” I suggest.
    We find my grandfather hunched in front of the toilet, throwing up.
    “Oh, no! Do you have food poisoning?” my mom asks when my grandfather turns a gray face to her.
    My father sniffs and looks furious.
    “Since when does food poisoning smell like red wine?”

My grandfather is grounded.
    Raj and I wait for him by the flagpole after