Free Shackled by Tom Leveen Page A

yesterday he came up to my stomach. He’d probably end up like our dad, tall with big hands and arms. When had he grown so much?
    Had it really been that long since I’d paid attention?
    â€œOnly sometimes?” I said, and felt something like a grin disfiguring my face. “I must be improving.”
    Jeffrey tried to scowl but then laughed. Somehow I did too. Just a chuckle. Just a chortle or a snort. But it counted.
    â€œHow come you’re going out at night?” Jeffrey said.
    â€œI don’t know. I just thought I’d give it a shot.”
    â€œIt’s been, like, forever.”
    â€œYeah, I know, dude.”
    â€œThat’s cool.”
    Wow. Also, ouch.
    â€œThanks,” I said.
    I chased Jeffrey out and began getting ready. This took 6.3 millennia, because, honestly, I hadn’t had to get ready for much of anything for a long time. My hands felt big and stupid as I sorted through clothes, trying to figure out what was appropriate. Then there was my rat’s nest of a scalp. I scrambled through all of Mom’s various brushes and combs. They may as well have been surgical instruments. What did this one do, what was that one for? Maybe I did need surgery.
    So I had to risk moving to my next line of defense, not sure at all how it would play out.
    â€œMom?”
    I found her in her bedroom, leaning against the headboard. The TV was on low, Law & Order —I’d seen it—and she held an e-reader in both hands.
    Mom looked up. Her face was suspicious. “What?”
    I almost turned right back around. Instead I lifted my chin and said, “What do you wear if it’s not a date?”
    The reader fell to her lap. “You have a date?”
    â€œIt’s not a date,” I said. “That’s what I mean. We’re just going to dinner.”
    â€œWho?”
    The shock on her face didn’t do much to calm my nerves. “David? From work?”
    Mom’s expression shifted. Slowly her eyebrows relaxed and a smile blossomed across her lips. “You’re going out with him? When, tonight?”
    â€œMom . . .”
    â€œYou’re going out,” she went on. “At night.”
    â€œMom, seriously, I don’t—”
    She flung herself out of bed like I’d announced she’d won the lottery. I wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
    â€œWell let’s just go see!” she said. She grabbed my arm and hustled me into my room. I hadn’t seen her that excited since . . .
    I don’t know. It’d been a while.
    â€œSo when did this begin?” Mom asked, critically eyeing every shirt in my closet.
    â€œNothing began,” I said, sitting on my bed. “I was just trying to apologize to him, and one thing led to another—”
    Mom turned sharply.
    â€œNot like that,” I said.
    â€œApologize?” Mom said when her terror had passed. “For what?”
    â€œI was just—he helped me out yesterday and I was a bitch about it, is all.”
    The sound of so much activity in my room roused Jeffrey, who poked his head through the doorway and said, “What’re you doing in here?”
    Mom and I both said, at the same time, “Girl stuff.”
    Snap. It wasn’t my rubber band that time. It was my gut. Or maybe heart.
    Jeffrey sneered and ran back to the living room. Mom laughed. A foreign sound. I almost did too. Except it was such a strong déjà vu moment, I couldn’t. “Girl stuff” was how Tara and I always answered my dad, or hers, or even little Jeffrey when we didn’t want to be bothered. Then we’d giggle hysterically.
    â€œHow about this?” Mom said, whirling around. She held up a crimson blouse and a pair of dark jeans. “Fun, sophisticated, but not too flirty . . . Jesus, is that a tag? Have you ever worn this, Pel? Doesn’t matter, what do you think?”
    I swallowed a cold lump of sudden