Free From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer Page A

suit that looks like it was sewn on. Can she breathe in that? Her hair is a reddish brown I’ve only ever seen on television actresses or news anchors. And it doesn’t move.
    “I’m Ms. Hudson, Stephen’s mother, but you remember me as homecoming chauffeur, I’m sure.” She shakes my hand like she’s trying to crack walnuts.
    “Gert. Garibaldi. Stephen’s …” I trail off. I glance wildly around, hoping he’ll help me, but he’s already sitting down.
    “We know. That’s my husband, Mr. Blasko. And his mother, Mrs. Blasko. Stephen’s brother, Walt, is at a Boy Scout event. He’s going to be an Eagle Scout.” She head-bobs around the table. Never once losing the smile. Her smile is terribly unnerving. “Sit.”
    I do, because holy buttocks, I don’t want to know what happens if I refuse. I’ve seen South American dictators with less commanding personas than Ms. Hudson.
    Stephen isn’t looking at me. It’s like we’ve never even met.
    His dad is reading the
Wall Street Journal
. “Dammit, cattle is up again.”
    “Not at the table. We have a guest.” Ms. Hudson glares at him. Mr. Blasko puts down the paper and returns her glare.
    “I hope you don’t mind takeout. We rarely cook in this house.” He directs this comment to me, but I have a feeling I’m not the intended recipient.
    “I love takeout.” I feel the need to bond with Ms. Hudson. Besides, I know what home cooking can taste like, and it’s overrated.
    “So, Gert, our boy here hasn’t told us much about you,” Ms. Hudson says, passing me the container of General Tso’s chicken.
    “I want sardines. Where are the sardines?” Mrs. Blasko yells across the table at me, making me jump. I’m the only one who seems surprised by the outburst.
    “They’re coming, Grandma,” Stephen answers without even looking at her.
    Ms. Hudson is still looking at me, with her eyebrows up above her bangs and her smile gleaming. She’s being too nice. A little odd. I feel like she’s a talent scout I need to impress.
    I put a spoonful of noodles on my plate. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”
    “Dear, don’t flirt with the truth. Tell us everything.” She puts some iceberg lettuce on her plate and drizzles it with vinegar. She keeps handing me containers but never puts any on her plate.
    Am I not supposed to eat anything? What’s the expectation?
    “So you and Stephen have been dating officially for a few weeks?” she continues.
    “Yes.”
    “How’d you meet?” She uses a knife and fork to eat the lettuce.
    “Mom, school.” Stephen takes a breath from inhaling egg rolls and noodles. He’s not a very pretty eater.
    “School,” I reiterate.
    “Where are the sardines? Joan, I told you I wanted sardines.” Mrs. Blasko shouts.
    Everyone just ignores her, so I shrug and avert my eyes apologetically.
    Stephen’s dad picks up the paper again and mutters under his breath between bites. His mom’s cell phone rings.
    “Not at dinner,” Stephen’s dad huffs over a dirty look.
    I really want to go home. Now. Forget seeing his room. I just want mine.
    “Work. Sorry.” She flips open the phone and moves away from the table. I think she must work for the State Department or something.
    “She’s a reporter at Channel Six,” Stephen whispers.
    That’s why she looks so familiar.
    “Gotta go. Gert, it was nice seeing you.” She grabs her keys and dumps the lettuce in the garbage in one motion.
    “When are you coming back?”
    “Late.” She slams the door.
    “I want sardines.” Mrs. Blasko sounds like a three-year-old.
    I stare at my plate.

    “And then she kept yelling she wanted sardines and his dad just mumbled about cattle fixtures or futures or something weird.” I try to finish my story over the ever-increasing volume of Adam’s mirth.
    “Stevie didn’t say anything?” Adam asks once he gets his breath back.
    “Noooo,” I squeal into the phone. I’m staring at my ceiling in utter awe of how horrible that was.
    “I’m