Free Pig-Out Inn by Lois Ruby Page B

uncomfortable red clothes, and piled like a pyramid. “Twins, almost two years old, and a new baby,” he explained. “I can’t feed them on what a teacher makes.”
    â€œMaybe you have too many kids,” Tag said.
    â€œOh no. I have too many wives. My first one has two children, teenagers. This is my second wife.” He handed us a picture of a dumpy little woman who looked like a “before” ad for a weight-reducing pill.
    â€œListen to this,” Stephanie cried. “Listen—to—this! ‘Mango and Papaya were inseparable. Bird and man as one, until Papaya’s employer, the lovely and desirable Honorée, sold the mynah bird to a passing truck driver. Papaya wept three days and three nights on his grass mat, until Honorée’s young heart was breaking for the short, weeping Malaysian houseboy, so she made the truck driver give Papaya the bird. Meanwhile, Andy Marini—’”
    â€œWait, wait. Don’t give the whole plot away,” the Gentleman said, gulping the last of his coffee. He plunked some coins down under his saucer. “Well, thank you, boys and girls, and especially you over there, with the pencil. You’ve convinced me that I’m much better off driving a truck than teaching English.”
    That night Stephanie, Tag, and I were lined up on stools at the counter like See, Hear, and Speak No Evil. Stephanie was scribbling away in her notebook; the scratching pencil was the only noise in the place except for the buzzing of an overhead fan that badly needed oiling and the sound of our straws sucking up root beer floats.
    After listening to the air for a long time I asked Tag, “Did you ever consider writing a book?”
    â€œI haven’t got anything to write about.”
    â€œNot true. You could write a book called, um, How to Make Your First Million Before You’re Twelve .”
    â€œI’ve got plenty of business ideas,” Tag admitted, moving his eyes around the room as if he were reading ideas off the wall.
    Stephanie looked up from her notebook to catch a sip of her root beer float. “I started writing when I was even younger than you,” she bragged. “As a child, I was writing poetry that rhymed.”
    â€œMy mother had a poem in a magazine once,” Tag revealed.
    As far as I could remember this was the first time he’d ever mentioned his mother, and I wasn’t about to let it pass. “Well, why don’t we write to your mother and ask her to send you a copy, for inspiration on your millionaire book? Where does she live?”
    â€œI told you, I’m not supposed to say.”
    â€œI’m not going to tell anybody,” I protested. “I just want to know for your own good.”
    â€œYou’re sticking your nose in again where it doesn’t belong,” Tag said snidely.
    â€œWell, I’m not dumb, you know. I can go to the Spinner Public Library and look up all the Laytons in the Wichita telephone book, and I’d find her after a while.”
    â€œShe has a different last name,” Tag said quietly.
    â€œHow could that be?” asked Stephanie, chewing on her eraser.
    â€œFigure it out.” Tag’s face revealed nothing.
    I considered the possibilities. One, Tag’s mother and father had never been married to each other. Two, they were married, and his mother had kept her own name; but that didn’t seem like the kind of thing a man like Cee Dubyah would allow. Three, they were married, but she’d taken back her own name after they were divorced—but did that make sense if she had a child? And four, she’d remarried after her divorce. “Tag, has your mother got a new husband?”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘new’?” he asked.
    â€œSo that’s it! You hate your stepfather,” Stephanie cried. “That’s why you don’t want to live with your mother.”
    Tag spun around on his stool