say they have to get going because they were supposed to be walking to the video store and straight back, and Jill’s parents will kill them if they find out about this little detour. Valerie hands me a folded-up piece of pink paper, and I shove it into my pocket to read later, when Charlie’s not around. Then the metal music is back on, and the girls take off.
I do push-ups till my arms give out. I do crunches till it hurts tobreathe. Charlie doesn’t get tired. He only stops because he can see I’m cashed.
We go inside to make some food, but when we enter the kitchen, there is trouble. Mr. Pellitero is drunk, staggering near the sink. Mrs. Pellitero is shouting in his face, “What are we going to do for money?” over and over again.
Randy says, “Mom, calm
down
. There are other jobs. We’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Pellitero says, “No, Randy, we aren’t gonna be fine. All the good jobs are getting shipped off to China, and your father thinks he can just screw around. Moving to another town won’t do no good. Jobs have been disappearing all over the country.”
Charlie jumps right in on the argument, veins bulging from his arms. “Mareno Chem fired you? For what? What did you do?” he shouts in his dad’s face.
Mrs. Pellitero is making the situation so much worse. She keeps saying, “Now what are we gonna do? Now what are we gonna do? Now what are we gonna do?”
I know something bad is about to happen when I see the empty bottle of Jäger on the floor. Mr. Pellitero pops his wife in the eye with one quick, precise punch that makes me want to spit in his face. Then Charlie gives me the look,
Jason, go home
, and I take off running.
CHAPTER 8
COOKOUT
MOM is the only person I know who’d spend an entire morning talking about Polish sausage. “It’s hot out today,” she says. “And this meat was expensive. I’m not taking any chances.” She sends me to the basement in search of a cooler.
“The Kuperskis live across the street. Why can’t we just use a plastic bag full of ice?”
“Go find the cooler, Jason. Now.”
Our basement is such a mess. I step over lawn chairs, oil cans, a baseball bat and cleats. I move gardening tools, dead tomato plants, a broken fan, and a bag of topsoil. Things we couldn’t sell in our yard sale. A deflated soccer ball. A dented drum set. Broken furniture we’ll never fix or use. Why am I the one who has to dig through all this junk?
I woke up hungry. Today is the Kuperskis’ annual cookout, andthey put out a huge spread, lots of meats and hot dishes. They don’t just invite people from Cardinal Drive either; they invite the whole neighborhood. Sid Kuperski is friends with a man who brings piles of hot wings packed in aluminum catering pans. Gloria Kuperski makes a mean six-layer taco dip, which is my all-time favorite food. Charlie doesn’t have a favorite food. He’ll eat anything, especially if there’s red meat or chocolate involved. The only person I know who doesn’t live for the Kuperskis’ cookout is Cornpup, because nothing grosses him out more than food from other people’s houses. He thinks there’s going to be a hair ball baked into one of the garlic meatballs, boogers in the pretzel cake, and weird strains of salmonella growing in the potato salad. He says there’s no end to the terrible things that can go on in a kitchen that’s not regulated by the FDA. If he comes to a cookout at all, he’ll bring his own grilled cheese sandwiches in a paper bag. But usually he doesn’t come.
“The cooler isn’t down here,” I shout. My tone is whiny, but I don’t really care. I’m not in the greatest of moods. I got about a hundred prank calls last night. I had to stay awake watching a horror movie marathon, picking up each call midway through the first ring. Otherwise our kitchen phone would wake up Mom. I try to think of something creepier than Kevin Thompson calling my house, again and again, never saying anything, heavy metal blasting in the
I do push-ups till my arms give out. I do crunches till it hurts tobreathe. Charlie doesn’t get tired. He only stops because he can see I’m cashed.
We go inside to make some food, but when we enter the kitchen, there is trouble. Mr. Pellitero is drunk, staggering near the sink. Mrs. Pellitero is shouting in his face, “What are we going to do for money?” over and over again.
Randy says, “Mom, calm
down
. There are other jobs. We’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Pellitero says, “No, Randy, we aren’t gonna be fine. All the good jobs are getting shipped off to China, and your father thinks he can just screw around. Moving to another town won’t do no good. Jobs have been disappearing all over the country.”
Charlie jumps right in on the argument, veins bulging from his arms. “Mareno Chem fired you? For what? What did you do?” he shouts in his dad’s face.
Mrs. Pellitero is making the situation so much worse. She keeps saying, “Now what are we gonna do? Now what are we gonna do? Now what are we gonna do?”
I know something bad is about to happen when I see the empty bottle of Jäger on the floor. Mr. Pellitero pops his wife in the eye with one quick, precise punch that makes me want to spit in his face. Then Charlie gives me the look,
Jason, go home
, and I take off running.
CHAPTER 8
COOKOUT
MOM is the only person I know who’d spend an entire morning talking about Polish sausage. “It’s hot out today,” she says. “And this meat was expensive. I’m not taking any chances.” She sends me to the basement in search of a cooler.
“The Kuperskis live across the street. Why can’t we just use a plastic bag full of ice?”
“Go find the cooler, Jason. Now.”
Our basement is such a mess. I step over lawn chairs, oil cans, a baseball bat and cleats. I move gardening tools, dead tomato plants, a broken fan, and a bag of topsoil. Things we couldn’t sell in our yard sale. A deflated soccer ball. A dented drum set. Broken furniture we’ll never fix or use. Why am I the one who has to dig through all this junk?
I woke up hungry. Today is the Kuperskis’ annual cookout, andthey put out a huge spread, lots of meats and hot dishes. They don’t just invite people from Cardinal Drive either; they invite the whole neighborhood. Sid Kuperski is friends with a man who brings piles of hot wings packed in aluminum catering pans. Gloria Kuperski makes a mean six-layer taco dip, which is my all-time favorite food. Charlie doesn’t have a favorite food. He’ll eat anything, especially if there’s red meat or chocolate involved. The only person I know who doesn’t live for the Kuperskis’ cookout is Cornpup, because nothing grosses him out more than food from other people’s houses. He thinks there’s going to be a hair ball baked into one of the garlic meatballs, boogers in the pretzel cake, and weird strains of salmonella growing in the potato salad. He says there’s no end to the terrible things that can go on in a kitchen that’s not regulated by the FDA. If he comes to a cookout at all, he’ll bring his own grilled cheese sandwiches in a paper bag. But usually he doesn’t come.
“The cooler isn’t down here,” I shout. My tone is whiny, but I don’t really care. I’m not in the greatest of moods. I got about a hundred prank calls last night. I had to stay awake watching a horror movie marathon, picking up each call midway through the first ring. Otherwise our kitchen phone would wake up Mom. I try to think of something creepier than Kevin Thompson calling my house, again and again, never saying anything, heavy metal blasting in the
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