Free Slick by Sara Cassidy

Chapter One
    â€œCould you get the map out of the glove compartment, Liza? You’ll need the butter knife to pry it open. Stupid plastic latch,” says Mom.
    The butter knife is about a hundred years old. The handle is made of real cow bone that has yellowed over the years. The silver blade pops the glove box open perfectly. I find the map underneath a blue wool chauffeur’s hat and a pair of cracked leather driving gloves.
    â€œHere, give me those,” Mom says, reaching out. “They’ll help me focus.” She wears the hat and gloves when she’s cranky about driving.
    Ever since Dad moved out, I sit up front beside my mom. It is perfect timing. The backseat was getting tight with my not-so-little-anymore brothers elbowing me and yelling to each other through my head. Mom tries to be environmentally friendly, which means we don’t have a roomy suv with tv screens. Our limpet-sized car starts on gas, then switches to electricity. It’s called a hybrid.
    â€œLike your hybrid running shoes,” Mom said once to convince me this was cool.
    â€œLike one of my runners,” I’d said. “Where’s the shoehorn to get us in?”
    My mother collects shoehorns. She has one made from a seashell and an amazing one molded from paper. Mom also collects eggbeaters, irons, dice, globes, pictures of roads curving off into the distance, and many other things, like old butter knives. Objects are her business. She helps auction houses, museums and collectors figure out what their old things are worth. She can look at an old teacup and tell you who made it, who used it and how it made its way to your hands.
    I like the color of our new car, I’ll say that much. The color is Vixen Red, officially, but we call it Tomato Soup. It sure stands out, which means we no longer wander parking lots like dazed earthquake victims, looking for our small car.
    I’ve been riding up front for a year, ever since Mom took us to Elk Lake and, in the middle of our nature walk, told us Dad was moving to England. Now when I go to Elk Lake, I look at the water and it’s got that bad day in it. Somehow, though, it’s still beautiful.
    My parents’ breakup is the same way. Dad’s happier, Mom’s happier, and the house is a lot calmer. Everything is better in lots of ways. Mom got busy after the panic was over. She reseeded our yard so the grass is lush for cartwheels, and she fixed up the house. She got the roof patched and the walls freshly painted. I do like the calm house. But that doesn’t mean I’m not sad once in a while. Sometimes I feel as if I’m suffocating, I’m so sad.
    I’ve learned what to do about the sadness. I get into bed and flip through my DIY books. DIY stands for Do It Yourself. It’s about making cool stuff for really cheap or free, like by recycling or thrifting. Thrifting means shopping at thrift shops, which enviro-Mom totally supports. By the time I start making something, I feel fine again.
    Last week, I made a bowl from an old music record in the stack Dad left behind. I put it on a cookie tray at two hundred degrees for five minutes, molded it over a metal dish and let it cool. I gave it to Leland to hold his arsenal of Playmobil swords and cannonballs. Now Silas, my older little brother, is begging me to make one for his compass collection.
    Leland is six, energetic, and cuddly about once a month. He’s cute though, especially when he’s sleeping. Silas is cute too. Both my brothers have little noses and swarms of freckles. People say the three of us look like fairy children—whatever that means. Silas is really sensitive. He doesn’t like other people to be sad or upset. He cries easily, but he also laughs easily. And he’ll drop everything anytime to play with me.
    â€œMy butt’s sore from all this driving,” Silas calls out after a while.
    â€œYeah! My heinie’s numb!” Leland shouts in