Read Online Pucker by Melanie Gideon - Free Book Online Page A

much to ask of you, but I don’t have a choice,” she says.
    And here, finally, is the truth. It sits in the room with us like a long-lost relative just come back from a war.

TWELVE
    I DON’T SLEEP AT ALL that night. I sit in the kitchen and watch the clock until it’s morning; then I call Patrick. His mother answers the phone.
    â€œHe’s in the bathroom, sweetie; I’ll have him call you right back.”
    Clara Graves is a second mother to me. There’s nobody who knows more about what it’s like to be a burn victim than she does.
    â€œThat’s all right. Just give him a message. Tell him we’re going to breakfast this morning. My treat.”
    There’s a pause. “Everything okay?” she asks.
    â€œYeah, fine.” It isn’t fine; it’s so far from fine. I have the sudden urge to confess everything. Where we come from, what I am about to do.
    I want to be little again. I want Clara to invite me for a sleepover. She fed us chocolate milk and Three Musketeers bars for dinner.
    â€œIs it Meg?” she asks softly. “I don’t think he’s that serious about her.”
    I don’t answer. My throat feels like it’s wadded up with cotton.
    â€œYour Meg will come,” she says, and much to my surprise, her voice is all rough and pebbly. “I promise, Tommy.”
    Oh, how I love her for lying.
    â€œYeah, sure,” I say. “Tell Patrick I’ll be there in half an hour.”

THIRTEEN
    Y E OLD EGG SHOPPE IS PACKED. There are no seats, but I know the password.
    â€œHuguette,” I say, and they find a place for us at the counter. I look at the booth in the back where my mother told her first fortunes in this world: where she made her first friend. I wonder—will I be given a password to get back to Isaura?
    Patrick and I order. Eggs and ham on an English muffin for him, French toast for me, even though I know I won’t eat. I sip my coffee nervously. It’s my fourth cup.
    â€œSo, what’s up?” asks Patrick, biting into his breakfast sandwich.
    â€œI’m thinking about going away for part of the summer,” I say.
    â€œWhy?” he asks, his mouth crammed full. “It’s our last summer before senior year. Last summer of freedom. This fall’s gonna suck, man.”
    â€œIt’s a favor for my mother. A family obligation.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t have any family: it was just you and your mom.”
    â€œI never told you about my aunt who lives in California?”
    Patrick scowls and pops a piece of my French toast into his mouth. “I hate this fake maple syrup crap. And you’re a pathetic liar, Quicksilver.”
    â€œI’m not lying,” I say.
    Patrick chews thoughtfully. “So this ‘aunt’ of yours? What’s her name?”
    â€œBetty.”
    â€œOkay,” he says. “Auntie Betty. And what are you going to do at Auntie Betty’s house?”
    I shrug. “Hang out. Go to Disneyland.”
    â€œMm-hmm,” he says. “And just where does Auntie Betty live?”
    â€œCalifornia. I told you.”
    â€œWhere in California?”
    â€œOh. Oakland.”
    â€œDisneyland’s in southern California, pal,” Patrick says, sopping up his egg yolks with a heel of bread.
    I sigh. “Patrick—”
    He waves his hand at me. “Just don’t lie to me, Thomas. We’ve been through too much.”
    I don’t say anything. He’s right, of course. I slide my plate across the counter. A peace offering. He grunts his thanks and digs in. I signal the counterman for more coffee. Patrick puts his hand over my mug.
    â€œDon’t you think you’ve had enough?” he asks, eyeing my leg, which has been jittering up and down the entire time we’ve been there. “How long have you been up, anyway?”
    â€œToo long,” I say. “All night.”
    Patrick shakes his head.