Before, After, and Somebody In Between Read Online Free Page A

do?”
    “You didn’t do anything when your aunt smacked your brother.”
    His guilty gaze slides away from me. “She only smacked him one time.”
    “He’s a baby, okay? You shouldn’t let her smack him at all.”
    “So you want me to fight with her so she can beat my ass, too?”
    “Well, why do you let her? I’d never let anybody beat me up.” Aside from Momma’s occasional whack upside my head.
    Jerome stops short in the middle of the sidewalk. “You know something? You just running your big mouth and you don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about.” He struts off, leaving me to wander home alone, wishing he weren’t so touchy and my mouth weren’t so big. But if Bubby were my brother, nobody’d lay a finger on him!
    Momma greets me in the kitchen, a bit brighter than usual. “Well, how was your first day?”
    “Sucked. Big time.”
    “I sure wish you wouldn’t use that word, sugar pie.”
    “I’m not kidding, it really did suck. Some kid brought a knife to school.”
    “Did you tell someone?”
    “No-o-o…but then there’s this girl, Chardonnay? And she, like, shoved me into a wall, and then she stepped on my foot, and—”
    “Well, I hope you shoved her back.”
    “Momma, she’s humongous! She’s about as fat as a—” Oops! I clamp my jaw shut. Weight’s a touchy subject where Momma’s concerned.
    “You gotta learn to fight back. Can’t go through life letting people knock you around.”
    Ha, easy for her to say. She probably could ram Chardonnay through a brick wall.
    “I don’t suppose,” I say, oh so casually, “I could go to a Catholic school or something.”
    “We ain’t Catholic,” she announces, in case I don’t remember.
    “So? I’ll convert.”
    “Those schools cost money. You’re staying right where you are.”
    “For how long?” I whine. “Momma, this house sucks, this neighborhood sucks, that whole school sucks, and everything sucks, sucks, sucks! ”
    “ Stop saying that word! ” she roars, spinning around as fast as somebody her size can possibly spin. “You oughta be grateful Wayne took us in like he did. You wanna be livin’ in a box under a bridge somewhere? You know, the problem with you is, you’re just like your daddy was. Spoiled rotten, always puttin’ on airs,always actin’ like you’re so much better than anybody else—” And on and on, blah, blah, blah. Everything I’ve heard a thousand times before.
    I slam into my room and grope under the windowsill for the key to my trunk. So what if I’m like my dad? My dad was smart. He even went to college for a while down in West Virginia, till he hooked up with Momma who never made it past the ninth grade.
    I dig through my cluttered trunk till I find my latest journal. I keep all of my journals in here, plus old report cards and birthday cards, and a few old toys I can’t part with. Lots of photos, too, but none left of Daddy. Momma slashed them all up during one of her drunken frenzies.
    Once, when I was little, we were all riding in the car, and I remember passing an old factory. Thick, pure white smoke poured out of the stacks, and I poked Daddy in the back to point it out. “Look at the clouds!”
    Daddy said, very seriously, “Yep, that’s a cloud factory, honey. That’s where God makes all the clouds.”
    Wow! I stuck my head out the window to get a better look, but then Momma had to ruin it with, “Don’t lie to the kid, Ray. She believes every word you say.” To me, she added, “It’s smoke, sugar pie. Nothing but dirty old smoke.”
    But when Daddy winked at me in the rearview mirror, I knew the truth: that Momma was wrong about the clouds, and this would be just our secret.
    Times like this, I really do miss my dad. He’s the one who got me hooked on Beethoven. He liked to play classical music in the car just to drive Momma nuts. He played it at home, too, on his violin, till Momma put an end to it.
    I stare at the blank page of my journal, but no way can I