How I Saved My Father's Life (and Ruined Everything Else) by Ann Hood Page B

cried together, in each other’s arms. But this was real life. Mom got up slowly and shook her head and walked out of the room, and I was left alone to think about everything, which now included not just divorced parents and a stepmother, but also a baby sister.
    Here she was now, casting a shadow over me.
    â€œTime to go,” Mom said, still in her bathing suit.
    â€œFine,” I said. Three hours at this stupid kid party and boring Bianca had hardly said a word. She was traumatized because she was going to sleepover camp next week and she had never been away from her parents. How lame is that?She should try never ever getting to spend real days with her father. She should try having everything good being stuck in a photograph instead of part of her real life.
    â€œBye, Bianca,” I said.
    â€œAre you going to write me at camp?” she said desperately.
    What would I ever write to her? “Gee,” I said.
    â€œOf course she will,” my mother said. “She’ll send you postcards from Italy.”
    My mother and I stood for a minute, side by side, watching Cody float.
    â€œI am not going to write her at camp,” I said.
    â€œShe’s lonely,” my mother said, her eyes fixed on Cody. “You have no idea what loneliness feels like.”
    â€œHere we go again,” I mumbled.
    â€œHey, buddy,” my mother called to Cody. “Let’s go.”
    Slowly, he floated to the edge of the pool, near the ladder. She held out the big blue-and-red striped towel that had his name printed in the middle in bright yellow letters. She was smiling, her arms outstretched.
    Cody ran into the towel, into her arms.
    â€œI can’t wait to go to Italy,” he said.
    Our mother looked startled. “Good,” she said. Then she nodded. “Good,” she said again, as if she had just won something.
    How could he give in like that? Secretly I had been imagining meeting the Pope, praying to saints, going to all the churches. But I had not let my mother know that, of course.
    Cody and I never liked the Friday night dinners our mother made us eat. This Friday was even worse: The Boyfriend was joining us. Cody sat at the kitchen counter, watching her cook, sullen. I sat at the table trying to move a glass of water across it using telepathy. Too much distraction, I thought. Too many bad vibrations.
    Our mother said, “Is there anything in the world as lovely as the smell of fresh basil?”
    We weren’t expected to answer. Our mother had asked what was called a rhetorical question. But Cody said, “Peanut butter.”
    â€œPeanut butter smells as good as basil?” she shrieked. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
    I rolled my eyes at Cody. We didn’t agree on many things. But we both agreed that Friday night dinners were awful. We also agreed that our mother should not have a boyfriend. Especially this boyfriend. Things were already weird enough in our life.
    She put a bowl of celery sticks on the table. I bit into one right away and spit it out. A trick! Instead of celery this tasted like licorice without the good candy part.
    â€œFennel,” my sadistic mother said, smiling. “Isn’t it an interesting celery substitute?”
    â€œNo,” I said, just as sweetly. “It’s disgusting and repulsive.”
    I knew she didn’t care. She would write in her column how much we’d loved it and then other unsuspecting mothers would give fennel sticks to their children. She would write something like, “They’ll be delighted at the surprise taste of licorice instead of the blandness of celery.”
    She was humming, not really paying attention to my misery.
    â€œWhat time is The Boyfriend getting here?” I muttered.
    My mother narrowed her eyes at me. “Why do you work so hard at being unpleasant?” she said.
    What I worked hard at was being pleasant , but I didn’t say anything. I just stripped the long