Roadkill by Rob Thurman Read Free Book Online

else.” Except for Promise and Robin who had managed to slide in when we weren’t looking.
    “Since the Auphe are gone and we’re free. With freedom comes responsibility.” He drummed his fingers on the shoe still on my other foot.
    “Well, in this case, responsibility can go fu—” The second shoe hit me in exactly the same spot. “Will you quit it, damn it!”
    “That was civic duty,” he said patiently. This time his fingers were tapping on the TV remote on the end table. “Would you care to discuss further the philosophy of living in a civilized society?”
    “Jesus, no thanks.” I sat up hurriedly. “You know, when I was a kid and didn’t want to do something, you made me s’mores and talked to me about it. You didn’t hit me with a shoe.”
    Making s’mores then had meant Nik begging a Hershey’s bar off a neighbor in a neighborhood where no kid should live, much less walk alone, melting it for two seconds in our rickety microwave, and squashing it between two saltine crackers. In reality they’d probably sucked. To a five-year-old who’d never had the real thing, it was bliss. “You didn’t throw shoes at me,” I repeated with a grumble.
    “You were five and good.” He quirked his lips, but his eyes said it wasn’t with humor—nostalgia either. Only regret. I knew what he was thinking: too good to be five years old. Too quiet. Too careful. You had to be around Sophia or you’d be sorry. Well, the days of quiet and careful were long gone, but it turned out the s’mores had stuck around. “Fine. I’ll make you s’mores and we’ll discuss this like rational adults.”
    He was really going to make s’mores? This I had to see. It had been years . . . since I was thirteen maybe, and he’d been going away to college, after skipping a year of high school—no surprise. “And if I still don’t want to do it?” I demanded.
    “We’ll see.” He passed me on the way to the kitchen area, the TV remote still in his hand. Bargain, but have backup. It was a good rule to live by.
    Ten minutes later I regarded the gluten-free crackers, soy chocolate, and a blob of tofu masquerading as marshmallow. “Just like the good old days,” I said glumly, straddling the kitchen chair. “Not.” Of course the good old days had also included fish sticks dipped in yogurt for tartar sauce.
    Food had been a big part of our childhood. Getting it for one thing; it wasn’t that easy. Nik had been born smarter than anyone had a right to be, honorable through and through although he thought—wrongly—taking care of me had something to do with that, but he’d also been born proud. Genetics are funny things, because he hadn’t gotten any of that from Sophia . . . except the smarts. She’d been plenty damn smart when ripping off a mark, but damn stingy about sharing the money. I’d been in the third grade before I figured out Niko had had to go to the principal and tell him we needed free lunches. When I’d gone to first grade, they gave me free food, and I thought that’s the way it was for everybody.
    If it hadn’t been for me, Niko would’ve gone without. Like I said, proud. He probably had gone without for his first four years of school or brought whatever could be scrounged in our mostly empty kitchen. Sophia wasn’t much on grocery shopping, but everyone at the liquor store knew her by name. Some memories you didn’t need a scrapbook for; a burning knot in the pit of your stomach got the job done.
    She taught us one thing, though: When you didn’t take food for granted, it could figure in all sorts of occasions—convincing, consoling, even celebrating. I’d grown up, technically anyway, but I hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to know the only reason I wasn’t hungry was because of my brother. And I hadn’t forgotten to appreciate food.
    But sometimes it was hard as hell to appreciate Niko’s adult food. It didn’t change the fact I picked up the s’more that would make even a hard-core