The Great American Whatever Read Online Free

I smelled the smoke from her car.
    That’s the same day I started wearing earplugs. That’s the same night I gave up on becoming a screenwriter, or an anythingwriter, or an anything.
    â€œWell, maybe we can drive by it sometime later this summer,” I say to Geoff. He’s still tapping his hands. This generic brass-and-fake-leather bracelet he always wears is adding annoying tambourine sounds.
    â€œSure thing,” he goes, “but, just a heads-up: There’s this, like, weird portrait of Annabeth painted on the side of the school now.”
    â€œOkay?” I’m not following.
    â€œThe principal had the middle schoolers do it. As a spring art project tribute thing.”
    â€œOkay?” He’s stalling. “And?” There’s always an and with Geoff.
    He pulls onto the parkway. “Dude: Your sister kind of ended up looking like a . . . like a giant pug .”
    Somehow, this makes me laugh. If you think I’m a confusing person, imagine actually being me.
    â€œWhy are you laughing?”
    â€œThat’s just ridiculous with a side of ridiculous,” I go, opening his glove compartment to get a Jolly Rancher, which is melted beyond oblivion. “It sounds like a straight-to-DVD Disney release: My Sister, the Pug .”
    Oof. No reaction. That can’t be good. People used to say I was witty. The guy who could find the funny in any situation.
    â€œ Any way,” I go.
    It’s quiet for a little while, and when I reach to adjust the volume back up, I catch Geoff wiping his nose against his arm. I should be the one crying, but I’m not. It never dawns on me that as an American, you’re legally allowed to cry in front of others. Maybe I’ve just seen too many old movies. Tough guys never cry in old movies.
    â€œHey, actually—can you get off at the next exit?” I say. “I should swing home for a sec. I wanna put on a clean shirt for the party.”
    â€œQuinn, we both know you don’t have any clean shirts.”
    â€œHa.”
    I’m thinking of so many mean things I could say about his “mustache.”
    I punch his arm, instead, and his car swerves, which makes my stomach nervous. My stomach is like a weather vane. It knows what I’m feeling before I do, always. Maybe that’s why I’ve been the emotional equivalent of a Hot Pocket for half a year. “I might not have any clean shirts,” I say, “but my dad does.”
    â€œD’okay,” Geoff says, using his turn signal like the responsible young man he apparently turned into during my recent absence.
    â€œI’ll be two seconds,” I say, when he pulls into our rocky driveway with no lemonade stand in sight. But he doesn’t stay in the car. He follows me right up the front steps, and right into our foyer, and right past the powder room with the broken toilet seat, until we find Mom—with her head in the freezer like she’s an ostrich who couldn’t find any suitable sand.
    â€œBabe?” Mom says, pulling her beautiful face out. Seriously, she’s beautiful. Fact. “Where did you go?” She shuts the freezer door. “And what happened to your gorgeous hair ?”
    That’s a stretch. My former hair was about as gorgeous as bathwater after a bath, after a rugged hike. My current haircut is, at least, practically see-through.
    â€œIt’s the new trend, Ma,” I say, running my hand over the stubble. “All the cool kids are doing it.”
    â€œWell . . . at least I get to see that handsome face again.”
    â€œHi, Mrs. R.!” Geoff says, pushing past me and giving Mom the kind of hug people write songs about.
    â€œGeoffrey, Geoffrey, look at you. A regular man.”
    Geoff feigns a whole aw-shucks routine, but you can tell he’s secretly thrilled to be getting attention from a female, any female.
    Mom reaches her hand forward and tries wiping