Whir, whir goes Stephen’s blender. Crunch, grind, as he drops in ice cubes. Rita is crossing through day twenty-two on the calendar when I go into the kitchen.
Whir, whirCrunch, grind“Eight more days, then I swear I’m going to stomp that damn blender into a million pieces,” she tells Stephen.
“Well, good morning and screw you, too,” he answers.
“That’s fifty cents for the cuss jar,” I say, getting a cereal bowl out of the cabinet.
“Listen, little mister smart mouth, I’ve heard enough from you.”
That from the person who did the cursing.
“Don’t talk to my son like that,” Mom says sharply, entering the battle.
“He needs to shut his fat mouth.”
“All I said was—” I begin, but Mom interrupts.
“Stephen, I suggest you worry about your own house. Heather and Sarah are the troublemakers. I’
