Free Slick by Sara Cassidy Page A

agreement.
    â€œMy tush feels like it’s on a porcupine,” Mom says. Then she reaches under her and pulls out a hairbrush.
    As we drive along, we start to make a list of words for bum . We get twenty-one! There’s bum, bottom, behind, heinie, butt, derriere, buns, buttocks, rear end, fanny, cheeks, posterior, rear, rump, seat, gluteus maximus, backside, keister, haunches, tush and can. There is also a word that also means donkey. This brings our list to twenty-two, even though we’re not allowed to say all the words. Mom says we’re not allowed to curse until we’re eighteen, which is totally ridiculous. She only lets us swear if we’re singing along to the Black Eyed Peas.
    The car windows are open, and Silas is chanting gluteus maximus with a stuffy English accent. “Gluteus maximus, gluteus maximus,” he warbles. “Has anyone seen my gluteus maximus?” We’re screaming with laughter. A man and his pug-faced dog stare as we drive by. Take a picture, sir. Take a picture of me and my awesome family.
    Then we pull up in front of Mom’s new boyfriend’s house.
    I get out of the front seat and climb over Leland’s lap into the cramped backseat. Mom checks her teeth for green bits or whatever in the rearview mirror. Then she looks up and waves big to him as he locks up his house.
    He gets into the front seat. “Hi, Laura! Hi, kids!” he says, overfriendly and not waiting for an answer. I don’t even want to say his name. I hate him.
    I totally, absolutely, completely, really, truly hate him.

Chapter Two
    â€œCome on, Liza, he’s not that bad. It’s not like he’s wanted by the police.” Olive, my best friend, is always urging me to be less emotional. Miss Level-Headed lives two doors down in a super organized house with polished floors and pillowy reading nooks. They even have a meditation room and a grand piano no one ever plays. Olive gets up at seven every morning to start her daily chores. This includes feeding the purebred Abyssinian cat Horus and making her parents’ bed. Yes, Olive makes her parents’ bed. But they make hers . “It’s a loving exchange of labor,” her mom once explained.
    â€œOlive, he’s stupid. He’s got zits. He’s just creepy,” I shout as we steer our scooters to the grocery store. Mom has sent us to get black beans and salsa for the quesadillas she’s making for supper. Saturday is international night at our house. Sometimes we eat Moroccan, sometimes Greek or Thai. Tonight it’s Mexican.
    Emergency grocery trips used to be Dad’s job. To reward me for doing them, Mom lets me get anything I want, as long as it’s healthy. Today I’m buying mini-marshmallows. Okay, mini-marshmallows aren’t healthy, but I don’t plan to eat them. This morning I made marshmallow shooters out of pvc piping. Now, an afternoon spent mounting invasions, blockades, blitzkriegs and sneak attacks is totally healthy.
    â€œMy dad thinks you’re scared that he’s going to take your mom away,” Olive says.
    â€œThat would be so cool!” I say. “Silas, Leland and I could have the house to ourselves, eat ice cream straight out of the tub, keep goats—”
    â€œYeah, right, Pippi Longstocking.” Olive rolls her eyes and smiles.
    I love it when she smiles. It’s like she smiles twice, like she’s happy to be happy. Olive’s dad is a psychiatrist. He makes his living figuring out why people feel the way they do, kind of a detective of the mind. It’s rubbing off on Olive.
    â€œYour dad left.” Olive is serious again. “Maybe you’re afraid your mom’s going to leave.”
    It hurts like hell when Olive says this. I mean it hurts like heck. I’m not allowed to say hell . But hell is sharper than heck —meaner. It fits the cutting feeling I have just thinking about my mom leaving.
    â€œOr you still