Child of My Right Hand by Eric Goodman Read Free Book Online Page B

Accords) was that those frozen DiGiorno’s, five-ninety-nine a box, were quickie dinners, not snacks.
    â€œCome on,” Simon said. “I’ll show you my room.”
    Rich followed Simon downstairs. When the boys were out of earshot, Lizzie asked, “After school pizza?”
    â€œIt’s Friday.” Genna watched Lizzie mentally revise the BHAs.
    â€œIs Simon allowed to have boys in his room?”
    Lizzie had inherited Genna’s ironic sensibility, but otherwise resembled her not at all: tall and slender, where Genna was neither. Her mother’s genes had skipped a generation, re-forming in Lizzie, Genna sometimes thought, like an image in a Star Trek transporter. The original Star Trek.
    â€œIt depends on the boy, don’t you think?”
    Lizzie grinned. What a charmer her daughter was. “What about Rich?”
    â€œHe’s awfully cute.”
    Lizzie grinned wider. Genna knew she was about to say something hilarious. One of Genna’s unadulterated joys was that Lizzie trusted her sufficiently to say what she really thought. How rare in a teenage daughter. But just then Rich and Simon started up the stairs.
    â€œPuh-lease,” Simon sang in his too excited, too loud, too high voice. “That is so disgusting.”
    Grinning, the boys re-entered the kitchen. She hadn’t heard Rich speak yet and tried to find something to ask him. He noticed she was watching him, and his pretty, long-lashed eyes—were they really green?—lost their unguarded glow. Rich, she thought, is a hidden person.
    Simon bustled about, much like Sam, who didn’t realize he’d grown too large to get up on the bed and was always banging into furniture and sniffing crotches. Rattling pots and lids, Simon excavated the Teflon pizza pan from under the stove, removed the spicy chicken pizza from its box, its bag, its cardboard insert and slid it onto the pan. What a load of garbage.
    â€œMom.” Simon slid the pizza in the oven and set the white egg timer. He liked to cook, and not just microwave popcorn and frozen pizzas. “Can Rich sleep over?”
    Lizzie’s head snapped up again, her dark brows arched like parentheses.
    â€œNot tonight.”
    Simon stopped smiling. “Why not?”
    â€œThe first time Rich visits”—she tried to make Simon meet her eyes so he would realize she meant it—“he can’t spend the night.”
    â€œHis dad won’t care,” Simon said. “He lives with his dad.”
    â€œAnd my grandmother,” Rich added softly.
    So he does speak. “Simon.” She was trying not to appear angry; she’d discarded anger in the old house like a dress that no longer fit. “May I talk to you in private?”
    She glanced towards Rich, who looked as if light might pass through him. This boy, she thought, has seen his share of discord. She walked to the living room where sunshine poured through the wall of glass. How could anyone not be happy in this much light? Simon entered and stood beside her, half a head taller and half again as wide.
    â€œDad and I have asked you not to put us on the spot by asking if someone can sleep over when they’re standing right there.”
    â€œBut why not? You can call his grandmother or his dad when he gets home from work.”
    â€œThe first time someone visits, he can’t sleep over. But he can stay for dinner if you want.”
    Simon’s jaw unclenched. “Are you and Dad going out afterwards?”
    â€œWe haven’t decided.” In fact, Jack had suggested a movie, and she’d more or less agreed. But she couldn’t decide about leaving the boys alone. “Rich is awfully cute, isn’t he?”
    â€œMom.” Simon tried to look angry but failed. Grinning, he bounced out of the room.
    At five, Jack called and spoke to Lizzie, who found Genna reading on the deck, and reported that Dad would be home in twenty minutes. Genna had a