Free The Icing on the Cake by Deborah A. Levine Page A

improvement—and she might not hurt herself every single time. Still, she’s not the greatest at following a recipe, she hasn’t exactly perfected her technique when it comes to slicing and dicing, and she’s not what you’d call “relaxed” in the kitchen—she bangs pots andpans and swears (under her breath), which makes it all the more difficult to enjoy the . . . somewhat edible . . . results. Soooo, we all do whatever we can to help Dad stockpile.
    When my dad cooks, the house smells amazing, and he just totally gets into this zone. It sounds weird, but it’s actually a great time to talk to him because he’s so focused on what he’s doing, it’s like his mind is free to think about other things. So, on his marathon cooking days, I usually end up hanging out in the kitchen, playing sous-chef to Dad, and chatting about stuff. Today, however, I’m not feeling the urge to help him layer pasta or sauté onions and garlic or roast chickens. None of it sounds very appealing. Even picking and choosing the vegetables (or fruit, to be exact) like a judge on The Voice didn’t cheer me up. On my way home I trudge past all the same sturdy brownstones I’ve seen all my life, toward the spikes of the black iron fence in front of our house, and all of the bikes, scooters, and skateboards lockedto its spindles. Stepping over huge muddy puddles left over from yesterday’s rain, I already know exactly what will happen when I open the door. The Goons will be crashing through the house, shaking the walls and floors with their stomping and bellowing (no matter how much Mom begs them to “use your inside voices”). Nicky will be playing Ancient Heroes without paying attention to where he’s going and will knock something over with a sword or a shield or, more likely, both. Our house, as usual, will be entirely feng shui free.
    Still feeling weird, I take Dad his ingredients. He’s blasting some radio station that’s playing All Eighties Music All the Time and tries to get me to dance with him. Um, no. Not today. Nicky bursts in and says he needs aluminum foil to make silver wings for his shoes like the Greek god Hermes, so while Dad digs around for the foil, I decide to take cover in my room.
    I race up the stairs but, of course, The Goons areblocking my way at the top, arguing over who gets control of the remote. As usual, some big game is happening somewhere, and one of them absolutely has to watch it, while the other one wants to play video games.
    â€œMove it,” I say, trying to get around them as they shove each other. “Move your stupid fight off the stairs now. You goons are going to hurt somebody.”
    â€œYeah, right.” Leo chuckles to Joey without even looking at me. “Like falling down the stairs would even hurt you, Chubbers. You’d just bounce.”
    Okay, fine, so I was a chunky baby and my “affectionate” family nickname was Chubbers. So what. That was a long time ago in a body far far away. I push through them, hoping maybe I’ll knock one of them down a step or two. But no, they don’t seem to notice. They storm off downstairs, continuing their stupid battle over the Golden Remote the entire time. I have no idea how my relatively normal mom (outside ofthe kitchen) and my nice-guy dad managed to produce such total idiots.
    Mom calls to me. She’s in my parents’ bedroom folding laundry (pretty much a full-time job around here) and she smiles at me as I come in. “Hey, there. Aren’t you usually chopping and stirring and packing up a freezer full of dinners downstairs with Dad?”
    I shrug as she continues matching up socks with a practiced eye. Who can tell the difference between all those Goon-size gym socks? Or those black, brown, and blue ones my dad always wears? My mom can.
    â€œWhy so glum, bella?” she asks, using the nickname I usually love. I shrug