Get Real by Betty Hicks Read Free Book Online

pictured her cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear so that she could extend her hands out, fingers spread in convincing celebration. Did I believe her? I wanted to, because the thought of the Lewises being sad or hurt made my throat ache.
    â€œThey want me to be happy, Dez! They understand that I need to know.”
    â€œThat’s great, Jil!” Maybe it was true. I was amazed. So amazed that I blurted, “But aren’t they really mad at Mom-2?”
    â€œWho? What? Dez! Don’t call her that.”
    â€œSorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean anything bad by that, honest. But, hey! I’ve got to call her something. How will you know who I’m talking about?”
    â€œOh,” said Jil, then proudly added, “Jane.”
    â€œJane?”
    â€œThat’s her name. Jane Simmons. But ‘Mrs. Simmons’ sounds wrong somehow. Too proper. So call her Jane.”
    I hate it when you can’t see a person’s face, but Jil sounded as if she were relaxed and smiling again, so I took a chance and repeated my original question. “Okay. It’s Jane. But, Jil, don’t your parents want to strangle her?”
    She laughed.
    I relaxed and resumed breathing.
    â€œNo. Because I let them know how she’d refused to meet me unless I told them. I confessed that I’d lied to get her to come to the mall.”
    â€œAnd they’re okay?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œThey’re fine, Dez. Honest. They met and talked with Mom. They’re going to let me visit her.”
    â€œThey should win the Parents of the Year Award. You know that, don’t you?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œYou guess !?” Now I was annoyed.
    â€œDez, don’t start.”
    â€œSorry. Can I go with you sometime?”
    â€œI think for a while it should just be me. Okay?”
    â€œSure.”
    *   *   *
    So I had stuck to what I thought was right for nothing. Everything turned out fine, and I missed meeting her mom. For nothing.
    I can’t wait to meet Jane. And Penny.
    Jil can’t stop talking about how cool they are. Jane lets her stay up late, put sugar on Cocoa Puffs, and she and Penny hang out at the mall all day.
    Meanwhile, Mrs. Lewis is teaching me to play the piano. I can go there and practice, even when Jil’s not home. So everybody’s happy.
    Except my parents. You should have heard them when I told them all this. We were all sitting at the kitchen table, eating spaghetti. Denver looked like he’d taken a bath in tomato sauce. Then he knocked over his milk, drenched his shirt, and started shrieking.
    â€œâ€˜Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, uproar the universal peace,’” Dad recited. Then he winked at me and said, “William Shakespeare,” to let me know that he was the dead poet he’d just quoted.
    â€œDon’t say ‘hell’ in front of Denver,” said Mom. “You know how he repeats things.” Then to Denver she said, “Shhh, sweetie. Don’t cry over spilled milk.”
    I sat up straight, stuck my chin out, and leveled Dad with a challenging stare. “ ‘I spilled my milk, and I spoiled my clothes, and I got a long icicle hung from my nose!’ Mother Goose.” Then I winked back.
    Dad and I have this thing where we have poetry duels. He quotes some old guy whose poetry doesn’t even rhyme, and then I hit him with something better. At least I think it’s better. Dad claims that my stuff is verse, not poetry, and it may be fun, but it’s not serious. And that I should learn the difference.
    I have learned the difference. Mine’s better.
    Anyway, while Mom washed Denver with a dish towel that looked older than one of Dad’s poets, I told them about Jil.
    â€œDez,” Mom said. “You need to be a good friend. Jil may be skating on thin ice.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to