Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino Read Free Book Online

the one by Tim’s desk. “I got it,” I shout to Shirley.
    Both Tim and I wait for her to hang up before we speak.
    â€œHiya, Beanpole. Did you will me to call?”
    â€œYep.”
    Tim laughs. “Just make sure you use your secret powers for good, okay?”
    â€œThey only work with you. I’ve tried them a million other times and nothing.” A million and one is more like it. I’ve willed and chanted and wished until I turned blue. I’ve tried for no homework. A snow day. A new bicycle. Ice cream for dinner. And, of course, I’ve been willing Kebsie to call for forty-seven days now. My special powers are very limited.
    â€œThe parents treating you okay?” Tim asks.
    â€œShirley and Marshall are treating me fine,” I say, just so I can say their names out loud.
    â€œShirley? And Marshall?” Tim laughs. “Is that what you’re calling them now?”
    â€œNot exactly to their faces,” I explain.
    Tim laughs again.
    â€œAre you coming home this weekend?” I ask.
    â€œI meant to, but I’m really busy. I’m taking a summer class, and then there’s a big concert upstate. It’s gonna last for days, and I really want to go.”
    I kick at the nearby table. The picture of Vinnie and Tim goes crashing to the floor. “Does that mean that you won’t be home all summer?” I ask.
    â€œJimi Hendrix will be performing there,” he says, as if that explains everything. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Everyone will be there.”
    â€œBe there or be square, right?” I say, because it’s Tim’s favorite expression. I’m never quite sure where “there” is, but in Tim’s book, the worst thing you can be is an out-of-touch “square.”
    There’s a sharp crackle of static, and I’m reminded that Tim is calling long distance.
    â€œHey, Beanpole. I finally got a letter from Vinnie. Can you tell Mr. Pizzarelli that? He says he’s doing okay. That things have quieted down.”
    I pick up the picture of Vinnie and Tim and rub my hand against the glass, checking it for damage. It was taken two years ago in front of Vinnie’s first car, back when Vinnie Pizzarelli didn’t have a care in the world, before his number came up in the draft.
    â€œIs he still your best friend?” I ask, without really thinking.
    â€œWhat?”
    I take a big gulp and ask again. “Is Vinnie Pizzarelli still your best friend?” I want to know.
    â€œOf course. Jeez, Tamara, he’s thousands of miles away from home, fighting a war. If anyone needs a friend, it’s a guy who’s over in Vietnam.”
    â€œEven if he doesn’t write to you?”
    â€œHe’s in a war, for Pete’s sake. He can’t write all the time. His letters are like gold to me. And to his dad, too. That’s why it’s important for you to go tell Mr. Pizzarelli about the letter. Tell him I’ll bring it the next time I come home. Promise me you’ll go see Mr. Pizzarelli?”
    â€œYes.” I rub my hand along the picture and make a point to touch Vinnie’s face. “I promise.”
    â€œEven when someone is far away, they don’t stop being your best friend, Beanpole.” There’s more static. “Ah look, I gotta go.”
    He hangs up and leaves me with nothing but his and Vinnie’s picture and a basement full of the empty feeling of missing Kebsie. Funny about how talking about Tim and his best friend makes me lonely for mine.
    I reach for the box of Oreos Tim keeps stashed in his top drawer and shove one into my mouth.
    â€œEven though you are far away, Kebsie Grobser,” I whisper, “you will never stop being my best friend.”
    I stare at the picture of my brother and his friend, wishing it were of Kebsie and me. We didn’t have anything like it. There were group pictures at birthday parties, but I didn’t have