Split Just Right by Adele Griffin Read Free Book Online Page A

though Portia complains about how many questions they ask her, once she gets going, listing off each hour of her existence on the planet, no detail is too small. Lots of her stories go, “And so then I said? no wait first Jess said?—oh, hang on, let me get this right.”
    All through dinner, I try not to squirm from restless-ness, but secretly I’m thinking that when I have kids, I’ll never let them make me suffer like this. At least Carter’s not around. He talks in rambly circles, too, plus he stutters and his days are even less interesting than Portia’s.
    “Now, Danny, I seem to recall that you’re taking Ty Amblin to the Spring Fling next month. Is that right?” Mr. Paulson asks once Portia’s finished telling all about the fencing assembly and what a disaster it was, mostly because she had to be Kathleen Comber’s partner since I wasn’t there.
    “I haven’t asked him yet,” I say. “He might say no.”
    “Oh, good grief.” Mr. Paulson flicks his fingers dismissively. “He’d be an imbecile to pass up the opportunity. The real question is, is Ty Amblin good enough for you? Is he a worthy date for you? ”
    I give a shrug that’s meant to show how I wouldn’t really care if Ty’s a good enough or a worthy enough date for me or not.
    “I mean it, Danny girl,” Mr. Paulson continues. “When young men aren’t busy acting like jerks, they’re usually being imbeciles; I know because I was one myself, long ago. I’ve never met this Ty Amblin, but I hope he’s a solid, quality young man.”
    “Dad, what’s your deal? It’s not like Danny needs your okay, okay?”
    “No, it’s all right,” I break in. “I mean,” I say, turning to Mr. Paulson, “Ty’s a nice, um, quality guy. He is. I guess.”
    “Good.” Mr. Paulson leans back in his chair and looks at Portia. “One day you’ll be a protective parent, too, my dear. To your kids and anybody else’s. That’s just how the game works.”
    “I’m going to be a cool mom, like Danny’s,” Portia says. “One who would let me get a tattoo.” Mr. Paulson just smiles. They’ve been through the tattoo argument a dozen times, and I’m happy that Mr. Paulson doesn’t take the bait.
    After dinner we head up to Portia’s room, which is like stepping inside a scooped-out cantaloupe. Even the lights are soft and peach tinted, and the mirrors over the dressing table smooth out your face so that you can sort of imagine yourself in a fashion magazine. I know some kids at school think Portia’s slightly vain, but with mirrors like these, it would be hard not to think you look pretty great all the time.
    “So we need a Ty Amblin strategy, pronto, or you’re going to be hanging out in serious loser mode, eating graham crackers at the chaperons’ table. First, some visual aids.” Diving under her bed, Portia hoists up the Rye yearbook that she stole out of Carter’s room and flips to page sixty-eight, which has last year’s eighth-grade class pictures. “Could he be any cuter? Survey says, no chance.”
    “You know I have the RTs for that picture,” Even though Ty’s giving the Smile, a closed slip of grin that catches one corner of his mouth higher than the other, looking at his elf ears makes my arm hairs stand on end. RTs are short for Retard Tingles, which is what you get when someone else is being or doing something so dorky that you feel tingly with embarrassment for them. Portia and I shortened to abbreviations when Mrs. Jackson yelled at us that you shouldn’t use the word retard, because it wasn’t politically correct. It was one of the only times I ever heard Mrs. Jackson yell.
    “RTs? Because of his crooked part?”
    “No, because of that elf shadow made from his ears.” But now his part looks stupid, too. I slam the book shut and shiver. Anything related to Ty Amblin always gives me a way more intense reaction than I expect. “I haven’t made up my mind to invite him, you know. He looked, like, so twitty when I saw