Also Known as Elvis Read Online Free

scandal.
    â€œI have an in with the cook,” she tells me. “He happens to be the boss. He also happens to be my cousin.”
    â€œCool,” I say. I’m not sure what’s cool about it, but it seems like the right thing to say.
    Steffi gets me a Dr P and I straddle a stool, while she goes off to the kitchen and gets us our sweet potato fries. I’m thinkin’ how whack it is that I’m thinking Steffi is cool, and, yeah, she lookspretty good, but she’s six years older than me. And then I remember how Bobby once told me how he had this big crush on Joe’s aunt Pam, who is in her twenties, for cryin’ out loud. I guess hormones don’t worry about stuff like if somebody’s your friend’s aunt or could have been your babysitter just a few years before.
    When Steffi returns and slides the basket in front of me, I notice that it’s, like, a supersize portion. I pull out the measly single I have stuffed in my jacket pocket, along with a handful of change.
    â€œKeep your money,” she says. “I’m taking a break and can have anything I want.”
    I’m not sure she’s telling the truth, because while she’s eating the fries she keeps doing stuff like cleaning the milk shake machine and refilling saltshakers. That doesn’t look like a break to me, but I’m not about to argue with free fries.
    While I watch her work I notice two things: the way she moves her body to the music that’s playing, which is a very nice thing to notice, and how whiny the singer is, which is not.
    â€œThis music sucks,” I say, by way of making conversation.
    Steffi spins around, slaps the damp rag on the counter, and grabs the basket of fries. “That’s it!” she says. “No more fries for you!”
    â€œWhat? What’d I say?”
    â€œ That is Patsy Cline!”
    â€œYeah, so?” I motion for her to return the fries, which she says she’ll do after I wipe the ketchup off my face. What is she all of a sudden, my mother?
    â€œPatsy Cline was one of the greatest country singers of all time,” she informs me, putting the basket down about a foot away from where it had been before, in case she needs to grab it away in a hurry again, I guess. “Maybe the greatest. She’s classic, like Elvis. And this song? This song is a classic.”
    â€œDoesn’t mean I have to like it,” I tell her.
    Now she grabs a squeeze bottle of ketchup and holds it up to her lips like a mike. “ ‘Crazy,’ ” she starts singing along, “ ‘crazy for loving you.’ ”
    Man. No matter where you turn, it’s all aboutlove. Even the King, that’s what he sings about, except in my two favorites, “Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes.” Maybe that’s why they’re my favorites.
    Steffi’s singing gives me a chance to move the basket of fries closer and scarf down half my half. I’ve drained my Dr P by now, wishing I hadn’t because the salt is getting to me. The song is starting to get to me, too, in a nice way, not because I like Patsy Whiny’s voice any better, but because of the way Steffi sings. She’s got her eyes closed and she’s feeling it.
    â€œYou got a good voice,” I tell her when the song ends and Patsy starts singing another one, something about falling to pieces or something.
    â€œThanks, Elvis,” she says, looking serious and kind of sad. “You like to sing?”
    I give her half a nod. I sing all the time in the shower and sometimes for my friends, but they tell me to shut up because they’re tired of hearing “Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes,” so I stick mostly to the shower.
    Steffi gives me another Dr P without my even asking for it. She picks up a fry, sticks it in her mouth, and says, “The fries are getting cold.” We both crack up at that, because that’s