Boy in a Band (A Morgan Mallory story) Read Free

I to say.
    When dad’s away, we visit a lot of her friends from the charity: cocktails here, cocktails there. I go to work with her sometimes. We’re at odds a lot right now. She thinks I don’t listen to her. I think she doesn’t understand me, which she doesn’t. She tells me I’m a hormonal teen and not thinking clearly. I think she drinks too much and doesn’t think clearly. We get along the best when dad is around—he expects things to be peaceful and pleasant which means we are all walking on eggshells. This puzzles me as Pat and I hear them fight often and it is anything but peaceful or quiet.
    It seems anymore when she talks to me and dad's not home, it’s yelling. Mom broke her toe last week when she tried to kick me after one of our fights. I was headed up the stairs to my room, and she tried to have the last word—or action. The banister was not so friendly.
    “Serves you right,” I shouted.
    She didn’t find my lack of sympathy amusing.
    “You’re grounded, you little twit,” she shouted back.
    Grounding wasn’t really used in our household, so it was more of an idle threat than anything. Maybe it made her feel good and powerful.

 
    Chapter 2
    I was eight the summer Gayle moved in across the street , and we became best friends. We used to hang with all the kids on the block, and now they think we’ve gotten stuck up since Gayle and I turned thirteen this summer and prefer to be alone together. They call us the tween bitches . We could give a shit; we’re into other things now, boys for one. Gayle and I talk about the boys and school a lot: who is after who, who’s kissing or having sex, who’s into what kind of drugs. There are girls in our grade who already have boyfriends or huge crushes.
    Being in j unior high has made it easy for us to spend time alone. School is so overcrowded that we have split sessions. Gayle and I have the early session, so we're out by noon and at Gayle’s house in time for lunch. Both her parent’s work, so no one is home and we can do what we want. Actually we have a lot of freedom between her parents working, my mom's charity work, and my dad's traveling.
    “W hat do we want for lunch, the usual?” Gayle asked, setting her backpack on the counter.
    “Sure ,” I answered.
    She pulled out the bread and bologna and started making us a sandwich. I jumped up and sat on the counter, watching as she spread the mustard.
    “Keri t ried smoking pot last weekend,” I said, thinking about my conversation with Keri during sewing class.
    Keri was one of the more popular girls at school unlike me, but since we both hated sewing and sat right next to each other, she talked to me. She was shorter than me, but she had thick, straight blonde hair that fell to her waist and almond-shaped green eyes. She had a cute figure and did her best to flaunt it. The boys all thought she was hot, and she knew it. She was a total flirt. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I wanted to trade places with her, but I sure wished I could get some of the attention she got.
    “Did she like it?” Gayle asked , slapping the sandwich together.
    “She said she did . Asked if I wanted to try it; I told her I would.”
    “You did?” s he asked in a worried tone, handing me my sandwich.
    “Why not?” I asked. “She says it’s sort of like being drunk, but you laugh more.”
    I paused, sandwich in hand, waiting for her to answer. As long as Gayle and I have palled around she’s never considered herself pretty. I think she is in her own way, her face is heart shaped and she has pretty brown eyes and light brown hair. The boys notice her because she’s very developed with big boobs and shapely hips. I on the other hand am developing slowly, too slowly for my liking. I am tall and thin with long legs. I have sandy blonde hair, which is curly. It makes me stand out as most of the girls are wearing their hair long and straight. It’s thick and sometimes unruly and hangs halfway down my back.
    One of