Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect by Michael Bailey Read Free Book Online

mind.
    I step outside and choke
back a shriek as I run right into my grandfather. “God! Granddad, what are you
doing out here?” I say, my heart pounding.
    “Same thing you are, I
imagine,” he says.
    “Ah.”
    “Yep.” We stand there for a
moment, choosing to endure the chilly night air over...well, you know. “I’m
going to have a talk with her,” Granddad says.
    “Oh, that ought to be fun,”
I say. “By which I mean, all kinds of awkward.”
    “I expect so, but we can’t
have this happening again.”
    I manage a chuckle. “Are you
going to tell Mom she can’t be bringing boys over anymore?”
    “Sorry, kiddo, nothing so
drastic. Ben’s going to be around for a while, so you might as well get used to
him.” He looks at me. “You don’t like him, do you?”
    “...Not really.”
    “Because he’s not your
father.” I shrug. “No, it’s okay, I understand.”
    “So it’s not a dumb reason
to dislike him?”
    “It’s not a great reason, but
it’s a reason. It’s your reason and you’re entitled to your feelings, but you
are going to have to get used to him. I don’t think he’s going anywhere anytime
soon.”
    I nod. “Do you like him?”
    “I haven’t worked him over
with my pool cue, have I?” Granddad smirks, winks at me. “Jury’s still out, but
between you and me? This is strike one.”
    As we stand there, doing our
best to warm ourselves by sheer force of will, I think to myself strikes two
and three can’t happen soon enough.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    FIVE
     
    “Are you okay? You look
awful,” Sara says.
    “Thanks, love you too. Come
on in, I’ll be ready in a second,” I say. Sara follows me into the kitchen, where
I pour some coffee into the largest travel mug I can find and start dumping in
cream and sugar to bury the taste of the coffee itself.
    “Seriously, Carrie, are you
okay?”
    “Didn’t sleep much last
night,” I say, and I’m about to tell her why when Mom comes downstairs,
shrugging into one of her suit jackets.
    “Good morning, Sara. Ohh,
hon,” Mom says, leaning in to better examine the raccoon circles around my
eyes, “you’re not getting sick, are you?”
    Sick of your boyfriend,
sure. “No, I’m good. Late night last night is all.” Not as late as your night,
of course...
    I take a sip of coffee and
wince, but not for the usual reason. It tastes mostly of the cream and sugar.
    “What’s up with the coffee?”
I say. “It doesn’t suck.”
    “Ben thought the coffee was
a little strong,” Mom says, “so I made it differently.”
    My entire body goes rigid
with rage.
    Okay, here’s the deal. My
Mom is a fantastic cook who, with access to a well-stocked spice rack, could
turn white rice into a toe-curlingly delicious dinner, but she has somehow
never mastered the simple task of making coffee. Dad complained about it
constantly and rightfully so: it’s terrible . Like, if it ever spilled,
we’d have to call in the EPA to clean it up. Despite Dad’s constant, ahem, critiquing ,
Mom never changed how she made coffee. I’ve called it “hell-sludge” to Mom’s
face, Granddad outright refuses to drink it, but Mom’s technique never
changed...but Ben says her coffee is “a little strong” and all of a
sudden she’s a freakin’ Starbucks barista.
    “Okay. Well, you better be
off, don’t want you to be late for school,” Mom says, as if trying to rush me
out the door before I catch sight of something incriminating and/or
embarrassing.
    “I’m going. See you
tonight,” I say. As we cross the living room, I detect the muffled hiss of the
upstairs shower in use. Funny, considering I passed Granddad as he was leaving
to meet up with some friends at Coffee E.
    “Ooookaayyyy,” Sara says
once we’re out the door, “there was some serious bad energy back there. What’s
going on?”
    “Mom and Ben had a
sleepover,” I say