A La Carte by Tanita S. Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

winning—soccer games, spelling bees, and science fairs in elementary and junior high and, later, scholarship and essay contests. Sim has never really gotten into the competitive thing, and his laid-back “whatever” attitude drives his high-powered attorney father nuts.
    â€œI remember your dad being pretty intense back in the day. Remember Little League?”
    Sim grimaces. “Ugh, don’t remind me. He argued with Coach so much he got me kicked out. He hasn’t changed; he’s still all over me with the ‘be a winner’ thing. He said if I don’t pull a 3.0 by midterm, he’s thinking of sending me to military school for spring semester.”
    â€œSeriously? That’s crazy! What does your mom think about it?”
    â€œMy mother has been out in the desert with some meditation retreat thing. She’s coming back next week, and she ‘wants to share the changes in her life,’ blah blah blah. It’s going to be a freaking nightmare.”
    â€œIt sounds unreal,” I say.
    â€œYou have no idea,” Sim groans. “She wants all of us to have our chakras aligned. You know what that might do to my social life?”
    â€œI won’t even ask.”
    Sim keeps talking. Little by little, the knotted, tense feeling in my stomach goes away. It’s like the last semester never happened. We sit and eat, and Sim talks about people I don’t know, but I don’t really care. I’m just glad he’s here.
    We’re carefully polite. When Sim’s cell phone battery dies, I offer to let him use my charger upstairs. Sim says he’ll go as soon as he’s got “juice,” and he politely sits on the floor in the hallway to wait.
    â€œYou can come in,” I tell him. I hand him the remote. “Here. Find a movie or something.”
    Sim flips a few channels and finds an ancient episode of
Buck Rogers.
We laugh at the bad seventies hairdos, and things start to feel more normal. While I go get more banana bread, Sim gets comfortable, stretching out on my double bed. He pulls off his sweatshirt and his boots and gets crumbs on my comforter.
    â€œDid you just spill
milk
on my bed?” I ask as I catch him furtively blotting at something with his shirttail.
    â€œNo, no, it’s just on my shirt.” Sim skins out of it and tosses it on the floor. “See? Got it.”
    â€œYou’re such a slob,” I say, and get up to get him another sweatshirt. “Here.”
    â€œNo, I’m going in a minute,” Sim says, waving his hand so I’ll quit blocking the TV. “As soon as this show goes off.”
    â€œRight.”
    And that’s how Mom finds us, hours later—Sim in my bed with the covers up to his chest (when did he do that?) and me, sprawled fully clothed right beside him, the plate of banana bread crumbs trapped between us, watching TV with barely open eyes.
    â€œLainey?” My mother comes up the stairs. “Did you notice…
Elaine?
” Mom’s voice skips an octave up the scale and my body flings itself upright.

5
    â€œOh, hi, Mom!”
    My voice doesn’t sound normal. It’s too high. I clear my throat and wish I could start over again. Stay calm, Mom. It’s nothing. Honest.
    â€œWhat’s up, Mrs. Seifert.” Simeon yawns. He sits up and rubs his face for a moment, then blinks. There is an awkward silence.
    My mother is standing in the doorway, very still, her arms down at her sides, her fingers rolling the red piping on the edges of her white chef’s jacket. Sim pulls back the covers and climbs out of my bed, markedly casual as he shrugs into his milk-damp shirt and steps into his shoes. He grabs his sweatshirt. “I guess I’d better get some homework done before work tonight, huh?”
    I would laugh, except I can see that Mom is on the knife edge of being upset. Simeon never does homework; we all know that.
    I can see conflict clashing