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Well, I’ll spit it out—and I’ll spit out everything I’ve ever—but it’ll cost you nothing.


Mom and Dad got a divorce.

I saw it coming, but it still hurt like a bitch.

It wasn’t one of those hot and hairy divorces you read about in the newspaper every day. It was one of those nice divorces you don’t. The kind that has a Terry.

“Nobody” got hurt.

I love them both so badly.

The passion was all gone—even I clocked that. Mom was hugging and kissing Dad the way Mom hugs and kisses her favorite cousin, Freddy DeMeo. Dad seemed perfectly okay with it—and Dad’s rarely okay with half-assed jobs—and then Mom would drive me to school, and I would forget how to do Biology.

Look, it was either pretend to meet each other for the first time—or, get what they got: a divorce.

Actually, okay, I’ll keep spitting it out: I am sort of devastated by how agreeably done the whole thing was. Like it was so no big—

The signing happened at the kitchen table. I couldn’t believe my own muteness. I didn’t want to cause problems. The mediator caught me in the hallway. He asked where the bathroom was.

And now! Mom immediately remarries. Terry.

Terry dresses like a schizophrenic, and she manages an alley—a bowling alley—called Melody Lanes.

Mom: still the corporate rockstar.

Dad says Terry is very good for Mom. He goes over there for dinner a couple times a month.

And yeah, that’s it.

I mean, that’s pretty much—well, then again, a very large storm is coming, I swear to God.

And then? After God?

Easy. Terry.