Who Do You Love by Jennifer Weiner Read Free Book Online Page B

she’d said, and Andy had been glad to learn, proud that he knew something other kids didn’t. It wasn’t until that fall, when he’d read the part in Tom Sawyer where Tom tricks the other kids into whitewashing the fence, that Andy realized, with a feeling that made his face and ears get hot, how his mom had
fooled him.
    He looked over the kitchen again, the linoleum in front of the sink worn to translucence, the sputtering olive-green refrigerator, the stick-on pine paneling that was peeling off in strips from the walls. Mr. Sills had said he could fix it, could make it look like new and it wouldn’t take more than a day, but Lori had told him thanks but no thanks. “You do enough as it is,” she’d said, and Mr. Sills, looking sad, had shrugged, then packed up his toolbox. “Call me if you need anything,” he’d said, and then looked at Andy. “That goes for you, too, young man,” he’d said. Andy knew that he would never call. We don’t take charity, Lori always said. Andy thought that maybe she paid Mr. Sills, when he wasn’t looking, to change the lightbulbs that she couldn’t reach and fix the basement window after it had cracked, which made it okay.
    Andy counted each ring of the church bell and was surprised that it was only three o’clock. He walked to the closet, planning to put on his shoes and go outside again, when he heard a key in the door. He froze, head down, as his mother stormed into the room, home from work four hours early. Her blond hair, which had been gathered into a high ponytail that morning, was falling down, tendrils hanging against her cheeks, and her hands moved in angry jerks as she unzipped her coat, fake shearling, with the white lining already turning yellow, and tossed it on the couch.
    Andy hurried to hang it up. Lori stood there, unmoving, just looking at him. All the stylists at Roll of the Dye had to wear black, which for Lori meant black jeans and either a black blouse or a black jersey top, always tight, always unbuttoned or cut low enough to show the smooth skin of her chest and the tops of her breasts. Aspirational, Andy had heard her call it, which meant that she had to look pretty so the women who came to the salon would want to look like her and that even the old ones or the fat ones would think that they could if they let Lori do their hair.
    â€œI got a call from Sister Henry,” she began, her voice deceptively soft. He saw how her hands gripped the edge of the couch and how her skin had gone pale with red splotches underneath her makeup. “What happened with Ryan Peterman?”
    From his spot in front of the closet, Andy said nothing.
    â€œThis is the second time this year,” his mom said. “One more fight and they’ll expel you.”
    Andy didn’t answer. In September, Darryl Patrick had called Andy an Oreo, black on the outside, white on the inside, “except you don’t even look black.” That wasn’t exactly an insult, but he’d fought Darryl anyway, in the playground after lunch, and when his mom had asked what had happened Andy had just said, “He started it,” and had refused to tell her anything else.
    â€œAndy?” Lori asked. “Andy, what are we going to do about this?”
    Andy put his hand in his pocket and crossed his fingers, hoping that if he kept quiet she’d let it go, but Lori kept on.
    â€œWhat were you fighting about?” Andy didn’t answer. His mom kept right on going. “Because you didn’t want to wear his old coat,” she said. Andy gave a tiny nod. She sighed, lifting her hair off her face, then letting it drop. “Honey, I told you. If I could buy you a brand-new coat, I would. I’d buy you a hundred coats if I had the money.”
    No, you wouldn’t, he thought. The pit of his stomach felt cramped, and his face felt like it was on fire. If you had the money you’d go to