Free Saving Montgomery Sole by Mariko Tamaki Page A

soon as I opened the door, I was flooded by the smell of fatty saltiness, chicken and potatoes. I could hear Momma Jo throwing around pots and pans. I tried to let the door click closed as quietly as possible.
    â€œSet the table, whoever that is!” Momma Jo yelled over the rattle of chopping.
    â€œSpecial dinner night,” Tesla added, her voice bouncing. She was doing jumping jacks in front of the TV in the living room.
    â€œWhy don’t you set the table?” I asked, kicking off my boots into the chaotic pile of shoes that is our doorway.
    â€œShe asked you ,” Tesla snapped as she switched to a kind of high-knee running on the spot. She had a little warm-up outfit on. Pink and green stripes. Like a Christmas elf.
    Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Tesla and I have the same mom egg and uterus and the same sperm donor. Tesla looks like the angel to my devil. I’ve got straight black-brown hair that hangs long and wouldn’t keep a curl if I glued one in there. Tesla’s got this crazy almost-red curly hair that she’s always fighting to keep in a ponytail, with, like, a million plastic bands and barrettes. Tesla’s a ball of energy. Everything she does has bounce. I don’t think it’s even possible for her to tiptoe. Like, even if she wanted to.
    Last year we got our pictures taken for Mama Kate’s birthday, and the photographer spent, like, an hour telling Tesla how much she looked like all these different movie stars.
    â€œWhat are you? You’re like a young Susan Sarandon. You know who that is? Smile for the camera there, Susan!”
    Tesla had smiled and carefully adjusted the sleeves of her flowery dress. Her favorite.
    I think I had on a polyester dress I’d found at a yard sale, and I was wearing it because it didn’t have a rip. And I’d been specifically told I could not wear anything with a rip for this timeless memento, which was one of the few things I could do for Mama Kate, who did so much for me. According to Momma Jo.
    â€œI’m not saying you have to wear a doily, Monty,” Momma Jo had grumbled, picking through my stack of clothes. “I’m just saying … hey , is this my sweater? What are you doing with all my stuff?”
    At the photographer’s studio, as I leaned on a giant prop foam heart, the photographer had smiled. “Oh,” he had added, gesturing toward me, just as he was about to snap the last picture, “and you, big sister, you look … very grown up.”
    â€œJust take the picture,” I’d grimaced, pulling at the tight sleeves on my dress.
    Of course, I have no interest in looking like a celebrity. I think celebrity culture is basically a waste of time.
    That, and my aversion to buying any clothes new from a retail chain has led most people at my school to think I’m either a Goth or a hippie. Which is hilarious to me. Because if any of them would actually do any research on either of those two things, they would see I’m not either.
    I’m not buying into a look. I’m refusing to conform to most people’s obsession with looks.
    â€œI’m nothing,” I told Thomas once.
    â€œYou’re just you in your momma’s clothes,” he retorted. “You’re a teenager dressed as a lesbian in her forties. Bravo.”
    Back at the house, which smelled more and more fried by the second, Tesla dropped to the floor and started crunches.
    â€œFirst of all,” I countered, moving from the doorway of shoes to the carpet so I could stand over her, “she didn’t ask me. She said ‘whoever.’”
    â€œShe said ‘whoever,’ but that means you,” Tesla huffed, crunching. “I can’t set the table. I’m training.”
    â€œFor the Olympics? A noble quest?”
    â€œIt’s Tesla’s big game tomorrow!” Mama Kate said as she jogged down the stairs. “Semi-regional girls’