No More Us for You Read Online Free Page B

tipped the carton, a long white tongue that stretched into the mound of cereal. The coffeepot gurgled and hissed, and suddenly I couldn’t help but see it as an appliance that could kill. Within the plastic black shell of the coffeepot, all the components were already in place for an electrocution: the dripping water, the hidden circuit and wires behind the digital clock, the emerald light beside the ON switch. I sat down at the kitchen table with my cereal and tried not to think about it.
    My mom came out of the bathroom in her terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers. “Good morning, Izzy,” she said.
    â€œMorning.”
    â€œAren’t you late for school?”
    â€œNo, not yet.”
    â€œIs that milk still good?”
    â€œIt seems fine to me,” I said, lifting a spoonful of cereal to my mouth.
    â€œYou should’ve checked the expiration date.” My mom opened the cupboard and took down her coffee mug withthe bright yellow happy face painted on it. Its eyes were two black spirals.
    â€œWho clipped out the chart from the newspaper?” I finally asked her.
    â€œYour father did,” she said. “He thought it was interesting.”
    â€œKinda morbid, don’t you think?”
    â€œYes, in a way.” My mom reached for the coffeepot and my stomach tightened. “It’s also good to know,” she said, grabbing the handle and filling her mug.
    I picked up the clipping again. “Why’s it good to know that one in two hundred and twenty-six will die from homicide? That’ll only make you paranoid.”
    â€œOne in two hundred and twenty-six? Seems a bit high.” My mom leaned over my shoulder and I pointed to the figure on the chart. She took a sip from her coffee. “Oh look, the death rate by airplane is seven-forty-seven. Isn’t that funny?”
    â€œHilarious.”
    My mom bumped me lightly on the arm with her hip.“You know what I mean.”
    â€œBut why is it important for me to know that, on average, seven hundred and forty-seven people die annually by airplane?”
    â€œI was thinking more of the heart disease one and cancer.” My mom leaned against the kitchen counter with her mug held by her chin. The happy face was freaking me out, its dark eyes and maniacal smile. “Now that I think about it, it’s time for my yearly,” she said.
    I dipped my spoon into my bowl. I’d always thought Cheerios looked like tiny doughnuts, and now I saw them as miniature life preservers. The chart said four hundred and two people drown annually in bathtubs, but didn’t list how many drown in oceans or lakes or swimming pools, or in a river channel like Gabriel had. I didn’t want to, but I thought of him seatbelted in his submerged car, the bubbles rising from his mouth and his dark hair swaying like some aquatic plant. I felt this twinge in my heart, a pinprick of sadness, and wished more than anything that he was in my life again, on hisway to my house so the two of us could drive to school together like we used to. I could imagine him jogging up the walkway now, the morning sun shining on him, car keys jingling in his hand.
    Roland, my little brother, came out of his room yawning with a severe case of bedhead. He had this I’m-technically-awake-but-for-all-intents-and-purposes-still-sleeping look on his face.
    â€œGood morning, pumpkin.” My mom ruffled his hair as if it needed to be more messy.
    â€œI’m not a pumpkin,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Can you make me some pancakes?”
    â€œSure, sweetie.”
    Roland dug into his nose. “I’m not a sweetie.”
    â€œThat’s disgusting,” I said. “Use a tissue, why don’t you.”
    My brother shuffled to the kitchen table and reached into my cereal with his little hand, plucking a Cheerio from the bowl.
    â€œMom!” I hollered.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œRoland just picked his nose and stuck his