Free You Could Be Home by Now by Tracy Manaster Page A

phone came out, with a doofy stylus for notes.
    â€œYeah. Just like him. And we aren’t the only ones. Bin Laden’s hiding at his gran’s house, too. You’re not really a reporter, are you?”
    He colored. His eyelashes were long like both Roskos’ but bold and feathery and dark. Further evidence of an unjust universe: no mascara in the world could get her that look. “I’m an intern,” he admitted. “I start at Rice this fall.”
    â€œThat’s nice, I guess.” A curtain rustled in the Rosko house. Little Ty, playing secret agent. Mona Rosko, wishing that strapping fellow would kiss the dyke and cure her already.
    â€œIt’s a good school. I’m looking forward to it.” His blush receded and his grin returned. Like Rocky, he had an underbite. Ten bucks said that on the way from his eardrums to his brain her that’s nice turned into a breathless, mushy, Sierra-to-Rocky-style omigosh-you’re-smart . A breeze rattled the chimes on a neighbor’s porch and a quick, deep damn! carried from the golf course. “I’m doing a follow-up on that kid who’s been hiding out.” Nicky made Tyson sound like a cops-and-robbers bandit. “This is his street.”
    â€œI know that. I told you I wasn’t stupid.”
    â€œHave you met them?”
    She shrugged.
    â€œYou have. Do you think you could throw me a quote?”
    â€œIsn’t the Crier sending someone real?”
    Nicky examined his hands, front and back. “I’m pretty sure I am real.”
    That was kind of funny, actually.
    But Lily knew the formulae.
    Laugh and it’s encouragement.
    Say I’m not interested and hear back bitch .
    And half the time he’ll take the God’s honest I’ll-never-be-interested-no-offense-it’s-a-question-of-chromosomes truth as a challenge.
    The other half he’ll ask to watch.
    â€œMy gran’s waiting. I’ve got to go.”
    â€œC’mon.” He took a quick step toward her. “Look. I was on the paper all through high school. I made editor my junior year. I got into Rice early decision.” He rolled his eyes. “And I’m spending my summer doing jack-all for an editor I caught using the wrong there twice.”
    â€œOur school paper did that once in a headline.” She hadn’t actually noticed, but her English teacher had gone on about it.
    â€œThe guy’s a sleepwalker. He’s got no idea I’m out here. But I figure, if I write up something good I might get to do something this summer besides watch my ex-girlfriend play FarmVille. Help a guy out? I’m dying.”
    The way he threw up his hands reminded her of Gran.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound so bad,” Lily said. “Mucking around online all day.” She was pitiful. Her hand made the shape it would take to hold her iPhone.
    â€œI’m dying,” he said again.
    The emphasis on the first syllable reminded her of Sierra.
    If she let her eyes blur, he didn’t look like Rocky at all.
    Lily knew what people thought of her. Even before Miss Titty Tattlecakes’ sob story. She’d overheard her parents. Dad to Mom: Who knows, maybe someday she’ll do a post on how not to be shallow. Mom to Dad: That’s mean. She’s so confident now. It’s helped her come into her own. Lily to parentals, if only she were actually confident: It’s the opposite of shallow. Shallow would be hoarding her know-how. Lipstick helped girls across the country, girls across the Atlantic even. It wasn’t an exaggeration to call it an essential service. Knowing you look good frees your mind for so many other things.
    Like doing actual freaking good.
    â€œTy’s a sweetie,” she said. Sweetie would get better play than one-of-those-creepy-kids-who-seem-forty. “Epic sweetie pie.”
    â€œYou mean the kid?”
    â€œYeah. Tyson Rosko.” The papers didn’t even have his