My Almost Epic Summer Read Online Free Page B

happen.
    1. She will be flattered that I’ve asked her to be my muse.
    2. She will be impressed by my scrupulous, artistic attention to her hairstyle.
    3. She will be astounded that I am familiar with so many Great Women of Literature.
    Or maybe all of the above. All I know is that my notebook is my best shot.
    “But I want to play Food Chicken,” Lainie protests, “or Who Died in This House?”
    “Tough luck. I want to go to Larkin’s.”
    “Mom says I got too sunburned yesterday.”
    “Which means you tattletaled that I didn’t bring the right sunblock. Thanks a lot, Lainie.”
    “I didn’t tattletale!” Lainie squeals. “I didn’t say anything! She saw my sunburn!”
    “All right, fine. Stop crying. It’s a beautiful day and you’ll just have to suck it up, because Evan wants to go to Larkin’s, too. Right, Evan?”
    But Evan mumbles, “Food Chicken.”
    “Funny.”
    “I’m serious.”
    He’s serious. I give him the dirty eyeball, but he doesn’t elaborate about why he wants to stay in. Maybe he’s shy at the prospect of seeing the lifeguard girl again, after their intimate moment of CPR. Maybe he’s just being stubborn to resist my bossing. Either way, it’s a pain, especially since Food Chicken isn’t even that good a game, considering I was forced to make it up on the spot last year when I discovered there was no television to plunk the kids down in front of.
    Lainie-plus-Evan, however, is a brat-force to be reckoned with. Or, rather, to not bother reckoning with. “Fine. Go get your money.”
    The kids dash upstairs. In the kitchen, I fill three glasses with water and set a silver mixing bowl on the table. Then I get the poker chips from the games cupboard.
    “Handfuls for food, spoonfuls for spices, half cups for liquid. Dollar bets,” I call up.
    “Fifty-cent bets,” Evan shouts down.
    “That was last year. We have to adjust for inflation. And two bites!” I add.
    “One bite!” shrieks Lainie.
    “Two bites! New summer, bigger challenge.”
    The kids come bouncing down, Lainie shaking her fishtail-sequined purse and Evan lugging his iron mini-vault that probably cost five times more than anything he’s got saved inside it.
    We ante up. Lainie starts the game by tossing a handful of raisins into the mixing bowl. Evan adds his chip and shakes in some dry oats.
    “Cowards,” I tell them, and drop in a spoonful of horseradish. We each eat two small teaspoonfuls of the mix, which tastes like spicy, uncooked raisin oatmeal.
    “Second round,” says Lainie, adding a spoon of sugar, which Evan scoffs at, but he uses his turn to pour in a half cup of water. When I squirt in some ketchup, the kids turn on their whine sirens.
    “This is called Food Chicken, okay?” I remind them. “It’s not called Let’s Make Oatmeal Raisin Cookies. It’s about testing your stamina. You play or you forfeit. By the way, that’s very good advice for becoming an adult.”
    “Sugar’s more of a cop-out than water,” Evan mutters.
    For round three, Lainie shakes in some frozen peas, Evan adds baking powder, and I finish with a half cup of soy sauce. I figure Lainie will call quits on this round, but she scrunches her face, holds her nose and gags her spoonful plus its encore.
    “Nice form,” I praise.
    “Diss -guss- ting,” she groans, but there’s a flush of pride in her face. Unless it’s the effects of the horseradish, which is making me feel a little hot under the skin myself.
    Round four is a drizzle of honey, a handful of cornstarch and from me, onion powder.
    We spoon it up. On my second bite, I get a frozen pea stuck in my throat and have to waste most of my allocated water to choke it down.
    “Rrrround five,” Evan calls.
    Lainie hesitates. “Five chips,” she says, “equals a lot of candy bars.” She looks up at me. “But I’m not going to lose.” She antes up.
    “Big talk,” mutters Evan.
    “Pick your poison,” I say.
    Lainie looks like she might cry, but instead she