Rocky Road Read Free

grande
trip. Because as it turned out, Ma’s wisest comment today was her warning Schenectady that the Dobsons were coming.
    Our Toyota had a dent on the front passenger door, and the side mirror was cracked and twisted. Luckily the U-Haul had no damage, so we’d still get our deposit back. But no such luck for the car we hit, a gold Lincoln Town Car.
    Yikes
. Ma hadn’t ripped the door off Mr. Nobody’s car. This one had a custom license plate that said it all: MAYOR .

Chapter 2
    Americans gulp down 1.6 billion gallons of ice cream per year, or twenty-three quarts per person.—
The Inside Scoop
    T wo police officers showed up within minutes. One had a clipboard and asked Ma and the other driver questions. The second one redirected traffic and set flares along the road. Meanwhile, Ma tried to make small talk with the guy she hit. The cops called him Mayor Legato, and he really was the mayor of Schenectady. He wore earmuffs, and a pipe sticking out of his mouth made him look like Frosty the Snowman, only he wasn’t jolly. Mayor Legato kept staring at his new car minus the door and shaking his head, disgusted. When hespoke to the cops alongside Ma, his deep voice rolled right over hers, the way adults step on kids’ words.
    Jordan and I stood on the icy sidewalk with our teeth chattering while Ma tried to sweet-talk her way out of this mess.
    “Can’t imagine what came over me,” she said as the tow-truck driver hitched a cable to the Lincoln Town Car’s shiny front bumper. “Guess I was plumb excited about finally reaching the famous city of Schenectady. I’ve done my research, Mr. Mayor. I know this place saw plenty of action dating back to ol’ George W.’s days—George Washington, that is.”
    “Quit jabbering, Ma!” That’s what I wanted to say. She was playing her Texas twang so bad, she sounded like Yippee Coyote.
    But the mayor didn’t fall for Ma’s flattery. As Pop used to say, it felt colder than hell with the furnace turned off. Mostly he kept scowling at Ma. And when she told the mayor that VIPs she knew personally said Schenectady might be the next washed-up city to turn things around, he exhaled a warm cloud and walked away without another word.
    “Hush, Ma. You’re making things worse,” I whispered. Not that I was worried about Mayor Legato liking us—it was too late for that. Money was on my mind now. The police officer had already given Ma a ticket for something called driver inattention. And I knew insurance would be coming after her for all this damage.
    Ma has a lot to say, but she never has a lot of money.
    Another hour and two stops later, we pulled into the Mohawk Valley Village. That’s what Ma called it, anyway. It was too dark to read the sign.
    “You and Jordan wait in the lobby while I find the rental office,” she said.
    The lobby of Building One smelled like stale potato chips. Its faded plaid wallpaper and coffee-stained carpeting reminded me of ugly “before” footage on my favorite home-makeover show.
    There were no magazines, no toys, and nothing worth looking at in the waiting area, so Jordan started peeling leaves off a fake tree next to the love seat.
    “Stop,” I signed, and he growled back at me. Hunger is a surefire way of turning my brother into FrankenJordan.
    Next thing I knew, he was pulling tissues from a box and flinging them into the air like a flock of seagulls. Kleenex soon covered the floor by my feet.
    “I mean it, Jordan. Stop!”
    He stuck out his tongue. “Tess no fun,” he signed, and he charged into the laundry room just as Ma returned.
    Ma said our apartment was four floors up—number 418. “The good news is they fixed the hot water. The bad news is we got one bedroom, not two like they promised, and the elevator’s busted.”
    So I wrestled Jordan down from the dryer he was standing on, and up the stairs we climbed. By the third flight we were all huffing. My heart was feeling heavy like my feet, so I tried a positive-thinking