Saving Montgomery Sole Read Free Page A

watch TV with my moms anymore, because they won’t stop asking me stuff.
    Every time we sit down to watch TV, they immediately dive into this weirdly pointless Q and A.
    â€œDid you know about this Facebook bullying thing, Montgomery?”
    No.
    â€œOh look, Monty! Is that a Goth?”
    Ugh. NO.
    â€œGluten-free. Montgomery, isn’t that like wheat-free?”
    No clue.
    â€œHey, Montgomery, is that the same actor as the one in the movie that you like?”
    Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, moms , because you haven’t included any actual names in that sentence. So let’s say no .”
    They’d probably just zoom onto the next question. “What was the name of that play you did last year? Was it Hamlet , Montgomery?”
    No, in fact, it was called I’m trying to watch TV .
    It’s easier if I just watch stuff by myself, upstairs in my room, on my parental guardian–monitored Netflix account.
    As I padded through the hallway, passing the living room on my way to the kitchen, Momma Jo turned and popped her head up over the couch. “Hey! Monty!” she shouted, pointing at the screen. “Didn’t we watch something like this before? About this woman but in the other show she was a doctor? Is that possible? Monty! Montgomery! Hello? What are you doing?”
    â€œNothing,” I said, slip-skating across the floor. I was weirdly kind of happy. Like, not laughing-for-no-reason happy, but at least a little happy. Like a kid who’s just discovered that socks on hardwood floors is like skates on ice. I twirled a perfect 360 and skidded into the kitchen.
    The Eye of Know , I thought as I perused the cupboards for the perfect snack. The words felt good swishing around in my brain. Eye. Know. All. Possibly my greatest discovery?
    â€œWhat’s up with you?” Mama Kate chirped, stepping into the kitchen, the popcorn bowl dangling empty by her side. “Are you going to watch TV with us?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “And, uh, I’m doing work upstairs, so not tonight.”
    â€œYour clothes are so big and old. You look weird,” Tesla huffed as she wandered in behind Mama Kate. “Where’s the popcorn?”
    â€œThey’re supporting my core,” I retorted.
    â€œDo you want new clothes?” Mama Kate asked, raising an eyebrow. “I feel like we’re overdue for a shop.”
    â€œNah. I’m good.”
    I’d been doing just fine on Goodwill finds and mom hand-me-downs. Momma Jo didn’t mind my duds.
    Many of them were her castoffs.
    Flinging the freezer door open, I grabbed one of the cartons of fancy blueberry gelato and beat it back up to my room.
    Then I texted Thomas.
    Me: Date done? Call me.
    I guess you could say that Thomas is kind of like my big-brother-slash-best-friend because he’s supermature, and I say this not just because he’s a year older than I am (and a grade ahead).
    I have often told him that, technically, that should make us even, since boys are so much less mature than girls.
    Scientifically proven, by the way.
    Thomas says gay boys mature faster than straight boys because they pay more attention to the world around them.
    That night Thomas came on the phone humming the theme from some cartoon series he’s obsessed with.
    I said, “Does shopping online ever make you inexplicably happy?”
    Thomas considered. “Um, sometimes. What did you buy?”
    â€œA crystal from a really ugly website.”
    Thomas snorted. “You and Naoki and your crystals and your dreams.”
    â€œHow was your date?” I said.
    â€œMy date with The Butcher?” I could tell he was painting his nails because I was clearly on speakerphone and he was taking little pauses of concentration. “He’s an urban poet. An urban poet and … a butcher.”
    â€œSurprise, surprise.”
    Thomas says