Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino Page B

barbeque sauce.
    â€œHere,” grunts Tim, and passes over the bowl, but what he really means is, “Here, and when are you going to stop working for the man and pay attention to the war and all the bad stuff that’s going on in the world ?”
    â€œThanks,” says Marshall, but what he really wants to say is, “Thanks? This is the thanks I get for having to get on the 7:11 train every morning and go into the city to make money so I can pay for your college tuition so you could grow your hair too long and tell me that I’m working for the man ?”
    Hamburgers. It’s not chicken. It’s burgers. That’s what they’re eating next door. Smoky. Juicy. Burgers. And I bet they’re filled with Mrs. Grabowsky’s special homemade relish.
    â€œThe food is good, Mom,” I say, but what I mean is, “ Shirley, can we have a barbeque instead of fondue, and can you please say something that will stop Marshall and Tim from fighting ?”
    â€œAnyone want a meat cube?” asks Shirley, but what she really means is, “Anyone want a meat cube for the cheese fondue I slaved over, and I will not have either of you ruining this precious family time so you both better simmer down .”
    But from the look on Tim’s and my father’s faces, neither one has any intention of simmering down.
    â€œMy pitching is really good this year,” I announce. “And we’re right in the middle of a game with this new kid—”
    Marshall interrupts. “Are you still playing that game all day? You could try reading.”
    â€œIn the middle of the summer? While I could be playing kickball?” I shake my head. “I can’t see it.”
    â€œYou are as obsessed with kickball as your mother is with her soap operas.” Marshall waves his hand in the direction of Shirley and me.
    I put down my fork and chew on a stale bread cube, trying to figure if what my father said is true.
    â€œAll kids like kickball,” says Tim. “She’s not obsessed. It’s nothing like Mom.”
    This time, Shirley puts down her fork and chews. For a while the entire Simpson family does nothing but chew.
    â€œAnyone want seconds?” Mrs. Grabowsky sings in the next yard.
    â€œI do,” cry the other Grabowskys at the exact same time.
    â€œAnyone want seconds?” asks Shirley in our yard.
    â€œNo, thank you,” mumble all of us Simpsons at the exact same time.
    â€œAre you sure, Tim?” Shirley sighs. “I made it special.”
    Tim glares at Marshall. “I’m not hungry,” he says.
    â€œYou could eat a little more. Your mother worked real hard to cook this food,” Marshall says, and what he means is, “Your mother worked real hard to cook this food and even though it’s filled with burnt specks and is probably unsanitary, you are being ungrateful by not eating the cheese fondue.”
    â€œI’m tired of this. I’m leaving,” says Tim. And that is what he really means.
    â€œWhere are you going?” cries Shirley. “I made chocolate fondue for dessert.”
    â€œLet him go,” says Marshall.
    Marshall and Tim stare at each other one last time.
    Tim gets up to leave. “See you later, Beanpole.”
    But I know that means he’s not coming home for a long, long time.

Chapter Twenty-Four
I Never Asked
    I T’S F RIDAY BEFORE the kids on Ramble Street get together again. We stand in front of the Grabowsky’s looking at each other, like we’re not sure what to do.
    Finally, Big Danny picks up the ball. “Wanna play?”
    â€œYeah, let’s get on with this game,” I say, and I give Muscle Man my best you’d-better-not-try-to-weasel-out-of-this stare.
    â€œI’m ready when you are.” He gives me the same look back.
    I head toward the Rattles’ front lawn, but no one follows.
    â€œWhat?” I turn around to the crowd.
    Billy Rattle is the