Free The Almost Archer Sisters by Lisa Gabriele

exceeded the child’s natural capabilities. Though her intentions are admirable, and we do feel that Ms. Archer might make an outstanding teacher, we do not think she’s a fit for special ed, let alone for the demands of social work, which requires particular detachment skills as yet unseen in this candidate
.
    I wasn’t supposed to see that note, but a TA had accidentally slid the assessment in my mail slot at school. It was an odd feeling to read about myself, to picture myself doing those things, however wrong. But as with the artistic pursuits of my special ed charges, my intentions for Beth and her love life had always been good ones. My advice was always meant to help Beth; it was how I attempted to wrap my hand around hers so she could begin to spell out happier endings. But what she and her friends had hatched went way beyond casual interference or heavy-handed advice. It was near-criminal in its brilliance, and for the first time ever, I had been included.
    W EEKS BEFORE B ETH’S last disastrous trip home, I had returned from grocery shopping to find Beau splayed out on the couch, the top of his pants undone. His furtive masturbation had woken me twice that month. I didn’t get angry because I wasn’t doing anything to offset the need. He was welcome to play with himself all he wanted; I just didn’t want the boys to catch him.
    “Why not?” teased Beau.
    “It would traumatize them. That’s why.”
    “How?”
    “They’re just boys. And they don’t need to know they’ve surpassed their father in every way. It would mess up their ability to admire you.”
    “There’s a message from Beth. She’s in fricken Thailand somewhere. I saved it,” Beau mumbled, tugging himself out of the tail end of his nap. “She’s crying again. I swear, you spend more time with her than me.”
    Beth’s crew was on a two-week buying trip to find cheap batik and men’s Hawaii shirts for a special episode on leisure wear. It was that aspect of her job that I had always found bafflingly enviable. She did these things, went to these places, and worse, she had a way of making the trips seem as important as G-8 summits.
    I dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counter.
    “What time is it where she is?”
    “I don’t know, but she and her friends are pretty drunk. It kills me. She calls, you drop everything. I want something from you, you tell me later.
Wait. Not now. No. Quiet. Leave me alone
.”
    “Don’t be like this, Beau.”
    “It’s true, man. I did the math. Fucking seven hours on the phone last month. That’s more than you spend talking to me. Or anyone else.”
    “Where are the boys?”
    I yanked a can of beer off its collar and threw it at Beau the way you’d pacify a caged lion with a lamb shank. I wanted to say that if I didn’t have Beth, I’d have let the hair on my toes grow black and long like they want to. I’d be fat(ter). I’d have cut my hair into that spiky middle-aged, manageable lady mullet, one you and the boys would be sporting a variation of, too. Worse, all proudly. Without the computer Beth gave us, we wouldn’t have found that not-too-bad-looking, unobtrusive helmet that Sam can wear when we’re not around, or when he knows he’ll be negotiating hard surfaces.And forget about that red halter dress, the French perfume, the playful lingerie, the tasteful porn. Forget about those recipes you love so much you once said that you wanted to spread my eggplant parmesan all over your chest in front of the guys at the shop, like a monster,
It’s that good
. Without my biweekly Beth dose, we never would have heard of
The Usual Suspects
, Lucinda Williams, or braised rapini, all your favorites now.
    You have no fucking idea, Beau
, I wanted to say.
    “So. Where are the boys?”
    “I butchered Jake and stuck his body in the freezer. Sam’s out back choking on his vomit,” he said, punctuated by a loud burp.
    “Ass. Hole.” I slapped him not lightly on the back of the head. “Don’t