The Downside of Being Up by Alan Sitomer Page A

sloped forehead?”
    â€œOh my gawd, Grampa Ralph.” Hill turned away violently. “Your breath smells like a goat.”
    â€œThat’s ’cause of the new milk I’m drinking,” he answered. “Helps with flatulence.”
    â€œWhat’s flatulence?” Hill asked as she buried her nose inside her shirt. She looked like she was about to vomit.
    â€œYou know, gas. Farts. The blow of the big brown butt trumpet,” Gramps replied. “They say goat’s milk makes your wind smell sweet like berries. Hold on . . .”
    Gramps closed one eye, strained, then let one fly. It was a loud, rumbling, sounds-like-he-wet-his-underwear type of blast.
    â€œNow tell me that doesn’t smell like a boysenberry bush,” Gramps said.
    â€œPhillip, please talk to him,” Mom said.
    â€œPop, don’t fart in front of the kids.” My dad shook his head.
    â€œNot him— him !” Mom shouted. “Talk to Bobby. About being a pervert.”
    â€œI’m not a pervert,” I said.
    â€œOh yeah?” Dad said as he took a seat in the living room. “Well, there’s twenty-two angry yogis down at the gym who say otherwise, Mr. Stretchy Pants.”
    â€œIt was a leotard,” I answered. He looked at me funny. “You know, a leotard, like dancers wear.”
    â€œAre you gay?” my father asked.
    â€œI’m not gay,” I answered. “The stupid therapist made me wear it.”
    I would have thought that Dad might have remembered what it was like to be my age and suffer from stiffy-itis all the time, but apparently not.
    â€œWhy does there have to be something wrong with being gay?” Hill suddenly asked, offended. “Maybe I’m gay,” she said, crossing her arms.
    â€œYou’re not gay,” he answered.
    â€œHow do you know? Maybe I am. And why does there have to be something wrong with it?” Hill asked. “You’re a bigot, you know that?”
    â€œBigot schmigot,” Dad said. “You’re still not gay.”
    â€œGay, gay, gay,” Hill answered. “Gay, gay, gay!”
    â€œSsshhh, the Holstons,” Mom said.
    â€œMaybe Bobby’s got that recessive gene that your mom’s brother Frank has,” Gramps offered. Just then I noticed that Gramps was wearing the same blue pajama pants he was wearing the day before. And the day before that and the day before that.
    â€œWe have an Uncle Frank?” I asked.
    â€œWell, used to be Uncle Frank,” Gramps said, clearing up the matter. “You probably know him now as Aunt Fran.”
    â€œAunt Fran used to be Uncle Frank?” I said, looking at my mom in shock.
    â€œSsshhh,” Mom answered. “Not so loud.” She peeped outside at the Holstons’ house, then closed the window blinds. “And be nice,” she added after another turn of the charm on her chain. “You’re talking about my broth . . . I mean sister.”
    â€œIf I run away, none of you are gonna come look for me, are you?” Hill threw up her arms. “I mean, seriously, you will respect my wishes to be a homeless teen living on the streets, right?”
    â€œPhilll-iipp,” Mom said.
    â€œDon’t worry, she’s not running away,” Dad answered.
    â€œI’m not talking about that child,” Mom said. “I’m talking about that one,” she said, pointing at me.
    â€œNobody ever listens to me,” Hill said. “Nobody ever takes my feelings into consideration.”
    Dad threw an angry look at Hill. I could tell he’d had about enough of this whole conversation already.
    â€œGay,” said Hill, recrossing her arms. “Gay, gay, gay.”
    â€œYou watch it, young lady,” Dad said, pointing his finger at my sister. “You just watch your bananas.” Dad then turned to Mom. “Look, Ilene, I can either raise a boy or I can raise a man, but I can’t raise both a