Free Slick by Sara Cassidy Page B

want your dad to come back, which can’t happen if this guy’s in the picture—”
    â€œOlive, I’ve told you, my parents are not getting back together. This isn’t some happily-ever-after Disney movie—”
    â€œBut if you actually start to like Robert—”
    â€œHis name is Slick,” I remind her. I’ve named him Slick, as in oil slick, because he works for an oil company. And because he’s greasy.
    â€œOkay, Slick —” Olive smirks. “If you start to like Slick, you’d be saying that, yes, things have changed. Life is never going to return to what it was.”
    â€œHe’s smarmy and ugly, and his feet turn out when he walks,” I say. “And he’s always happy, or fake happy. There’s nothing complicated about it. I hate him.”
    I hold back from saying I hate her too. At that moment, I do hate Olive. And her dad.
    But I’m saved from this stupid discussion because we arrive at the supermarket. The parking lot is crazy lively. It’s decorated with balloons, and a not-terrible band is playing on a makeshift stage.
    â€œCustomer appreciation day,” explains an employee as she hands us slabs of white cake on flimsy paper plates. “A day that we appreciate you, our customers.”
    â€œWow,” Olive and I say in unison. It is like being anointed as royal customers.
    We perch on one of those concrete slugs that divide up parking lots. With plates balanced on our knees, we watch the band. The lead singer is a dude my mom’s age with strings of hair dangling from the shores of a bald spot. He shakes his head, sending a shower of sweat our way.
    â€œUgh! It landed in your cake!” I cry in mock horror. With queenly poise, Olive delicately works her plastic fork around the area we call the Rock Star Sweat Spot. That gets us laughing until we lean against each other, gasping for breath.

Chapter Three
    â€œ Za ? That’s a word?” Mom looks doubtful, one shaggy eyebrow raised.
    â€œZa. As in piz-za,” I say. “A round thing covered with melted cheese?”
    â€œI’ll look it up! I’ll look it up!” Silas yells. He starts thumbing the Scrabble dictionary as he jumps on my mom’s double bed.
    â€œMore tea, dear ladies?” Leland asks, bowing with a tea towel over one arm.
    When Mom and I play Scrabble, Silas is Dictionary Boy and Leland is Tea Boy. Leland pours half the tea onto the table rather than in our cups, but at least Mom and I get to play.
    â€œWith the z on triple letter score for thirty points,” I sweetly point out.
    â€œI know, I know.”
    â€œBut I count the thirty points twice because, going down, the z turns your it into zit . Let’s see now, thirty plus thirty…”
    â€œOkay, okay .” Mom laughs.
    â€œAren’t you impressed by my intelligence?”
    â€œNo,” Mom says. “I’m not. Because the very first time I looked at wrinkled, red-faced, screaming you, I thought, ‘Goodness, this is a smart one.’”
    â€œYeah, right,” I mumble.
    â€œYeah. Right .” Mom watches me. Finally I nod, and she’s satisfied that I believe her.
    â€œHello?” a voice calls from downstairs. It’s Rachael, the boys’ viola-playing, hot-chocolate-making babysitter. Usually I babysit the boys, but Mom’s been going out so much lately, I’m fed up with looking after them.
    â€œWe’ll be right down!” Mom sings. “If I can still walk. Liza has crushed me at Scrabble again.
    â€œYou know,” she tells me, “it fills me with joy when my children do something better than I can.” Then she looks at the clock by the bed, cries, “Oh, goodness!” and yanks her closet door open. “Clean up the game, will you? I’ve got to dress.”
    Minutes later, Slick is at the door. Silas and Leland pelt him with marshmallows, which is great. I urge them on,