A & L Do Summer Read Free

their children. I’m one of the lucky few who turned out okay, but I doubt that Manny will ever be normal.
    Manny throws up his hands. “Fine, Mom, but I can only help you until eleven because I have to be at work by noon.” He dumps half a box of strawberry-flavored cereal into a bowl. The sound of crinkling paper rouses Carmine, who groans to his feet, shakes loose hair and fleas all over the kitchen, and lumbers to the table to beg. “And I’m tied up all day tomorrow, mowing greens in the morning and caddying until dark.”
    He tosses a few cereal clusters to Carmine and empties a carton of milk into the bowl, except for the pint or so that splashes onto the floor. “So even though this morning is my only free time all weekend and I have to change the oil in my car, flush the cooling system, and rotate the tires, I’ll help you instead.” He shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and proceeds to talk around it. “The oil light has only been flashing since Tuesday, so it’s probably good for another week or so until the engine blows up.”
    Mom stops in mid-scrub. “It certainly is not! As soon as you finish eating, you will march right out there and take care of your car. And before you drive anywhere, your father is going to double-check that it’s in proper working order.”
    When Mom goes back to scouring, Manny breaks into a grin. He treats that old black car of his better than he treats Cynthia, his girlfriend. I’m positive no lights were flashing when he gave Laurel and me a ride home from school Thursday. But if I mention it, that’s my last ride of the summer. Mom and Dad are stingy with their car keys, and I can’t afford my own car, so I have to stay on what passes for Manny’s good side.
    â€œWhat about you, Aspen?” Mom throws over her shoulder. “Any reason you can’t pull weeds and trim the bushes?”
    Before answering, I take a moment to show Manny the new pink polish on my right middle finger. “None that I can think of.”
    â€œGood. Then hurry up and eat so you can get started.”
    Except for food and water breaks—and monitored trips to the bathroom—Mom has Dad and me laboring like indentured servants all day Saturday and Sunday. Late Saturday afternoon it occurs to me that I might get out of Sunday’s chores by reminding Mom I have three finals next week. My excuse almost works until she checks the Cottonwood Creek High Web site and discovers my first final isn’t until Wednesday. I should have known showing her how to access the site would come back to haunt me.
    My back throbs from pulling weeds in the flowerbeds and spreading at least fifty bags of mulch. My neck and shoulders ache from steadying the electric hedge trimmers. My shins are bruised from leaning against the ladder when I washed the upstairs windows. And those jobs pale in comparison to scrubbing the grout between the tiles in the guest bathroom. I hope I got all the cleanser rinsed out of the toothbrush I used, or Manny’s going to be really pissed.
    The worst part of putting in all this work for Manny’s graduation party is that he’ll be away at college next year when mine rolls around. So guess who gets to do all the manual labor again?
    Mom doesn’t unshackle me until almost dark on Sunday. By then I barely have the strength to shower, change into my sleep tee, and crawl into bed. Carmine, who’s exhausted from being under my feet every second for the past two days, is snoring on the rug. It’s a good thing I have Laurel’s number on speed dial because my fingers are too sore to push more than one button.
    Laurel answers on the first ring. “It’s about time you called! I’ve left you, like, a hundred messages. I thought you were coming over this afternoon.” Her guilt-inducing moan works great on her dad, but it’s wasted on me.
    Laurel’s parents divorced