Girl Mans Up Read Online Free

clothes.”
    Switching to Portuguese so she can talk fast and easy, she goes into an explanation of what a punk druggy is, which basically translates to this: a punk druggy is a teenage douche who smokes cigarettes, does drugs, wears ripped-up pants too low, disrespects their parents, lies and steals, and—
    â€œYou not a boy.”
    Yeah, that. “I know. I didn’t say I was.”
    She thinks that because I look like a guy, I must be trying to not be a girl. I don’t speak enough Portuguese to be able to defend myself against that, so I shrug and sigh, and ignore what I can.
    â€œYou no wear that to the school.”
    â€œI’m taking it off when I get there. My uniform shirt’s underneath.”
    She lifts a warning finger at me. “You watch out now.” She always says that when she’s warning me and Johnny not to do anything stupid.
    Mom wanders into the hallway and starts yelling Johnny’s name over and over. This is how she gets us to move fast, because it’s the only way to make the yelling stop. I head for the front hall, taking a seat on the bottom stair to wait. Soon, I can hear the rumble of Johnny rushing up from the basement. He unties his bandanna, slicks back the brown hair that goes down to his shoulders, puts the bandanna on again, stretches his massive biceps, then triceps, shifts his muscle shirt, and finishes with a feel of his chin for its smoothness.
    â€œJoão!” Mom says. That’s his official name, the Portuguese equivalent of John, but he always hated how everyone mispronounces it Jo-wow when it should be more like J’wah , so he switched to Johnny a long time ago. I think he looks way more like a Johnny than a João.
    â€œRelax, Ma. I’m right in front of you,” he says, slipping his morning cigarette behind an ear. “I’m not deaf.”
    â€œHey!” Dad says from over the upstairs banister. “ Respeito .”
    Johnny nods, but there’s a sigh escaping his lips. Doesn’t matter how old you are in my family, you always have to have respect for anyone older—especially your parents. Dad disappears back into the bedroom to finish getting ready for work. Mom fires a bunch of questions at Johnny. Stuff about how the patio stones are still leaning up against the house because he hasn’t bothered to get started on the backyard work he said he’d have done by now.
    â€œWhoa,” Johnny says, lifting his arms like a shield. “I told you I’m busy at work right now. My business is the priority, man.”
    They dive right into an argument, mostly in Portuguese because Johnny’s got a handle on the language. My parents’ English is pretty rough, but they understand it well enough.
    â€œI could do it,” I say.
    They both look over at the sound of my voice.
    â€œNah, man. I gotta level the ground,” Johnny says.
    â€œYou could show me how to do it.”
    â€œNo, no, no,” Mom says. “You want job? I give you a job to clean with you mãe . This outside is you irmão job.”
    I’m not sure if by that she means that it’s my brother’s job since he does outdoor work for a living, or if it’s his job because he can grow a beard.
    â€œMa, if Pen wants to help, what’s the problem, huh? You think she’s gonna hit her head with a shovel and cry or something?” Johnny says. She scowls, and he nods all exaggerated. “I’ll get to it, all right?”
    To me, she says, “You wanna learn the something? I teach you to do the stuff. I teach you to make the house nice. I teachyou to make comida . I teach you everything I know.”
    I don’t say anything.
    â€œYou wanna learn? I teach you.”
    â€œI don’t . . . uh,” I say, but finding the least wrong-sounding way to say what I want to say isn’t easy. She won’t get it, regardless. “I want to learn to do different