Sorta Like a Rock Star Read Online Free

life, even if I did wish that her life was a whole lot better than it actually was. Her telling me that on the couch as we watched Jurassic Park , it was sorta like a moment for me.
    Back in the present, as I walk the cold mile to Ricky’s house, B Thrice circles my heels like a maniac, and sometimes he runs through my legs when I take a long stride. Because I’m a chick, I like to pretend I’m Dorothy, BBB is Toto, and we’re walking on the frickin’ Yellow Brick Road, just about to meet some interesting friends who will help us melt the Wicked Witch. It’s a pretty dumb fantasy, especially since Judy Garland was so super-mega beautiful and most boys would rather kiss the Tin Man—or even a flying butt-monkey—than swap spit with yours truly.
    But I like skipping and singing.
    It’s maybe even my favorite.
    There is no one out on the streets at the crack of ass, so I let loose with a couple of verses and suddenly I’m off to see the wizard in my mind. I’m a freak. True. But it ain’t like I’m hurting anybody, and Bobby Big Boy gets a big bang out of the fantasy too, I know because the very second I start singing and skipping he goes mad, jumping like some tiny furry ballerina. And BBB can JUMP—like—three feet into the air, which is pretty good considering that he is only maybe twelve little inches tall.
    And then I’m at Ricky’s, so I key into the back door, using my very own key that Donna made for me a while back.
    By the refrigerator, BBB has a little setup—two bowls that are Phillies red, because Ricky likes the Philadelphia Phillies and so does Donna. Donna spoils B3 with the wet stuff in cans. No dry crap for him. I feed my pup and he eats merrily, his little tail going like a frickin’ windshield wiper.
    Next I unload the dishwasher, which doesn’t take all that long.
    Today is omelet day, so I crack a half-dozen or so eggs into a big old silver bowl, add milk, and then whisk the hell out of it all. I find tomatoes and mushrooms and a red pepper in the vegetable drawer, so I chop that hooey up like a pro, using one of Donna’s super expensive knives and a thick-ass chopping board.
    All those sliced veggies go into my silver bowl.
    I add pepper, salt, a dash of hot sauce, and a shot of tequila from the liquor cabinet, which is my newest secret omelet ingredient. When it comes to cooking, I can get quite loopy. The alcohol will get cooked out, and it’s only a single shot split between three servings, so no worries about getting drunk before school or anything like that.
    I spray the frying pan with Pam, and then let it get good and hot, while I halve oranges and put Donna’s automatic juicer to use.
    Bobby Big Boy has finished his breakfast and is lying on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor so that his tiny legs are in the air and I can see he has a stiffy, which is gross. But I don’t want him to feel self-conscious, especially since lying on his back with a full belly is his second favorite, next to pissing, so I pretend I do not notice.
    It takes three to four oranges to make a tiny glass of juice, and I end up using twelve, just so Ricky, Donna, and I will get all the vitamin C we need to fight frickin’ colds and whatnot.
    The pan is not quite hot enough yet, so I retrieve the newspaper from the driveway, remove the plastic wrapper, and put the paper on Donna’s seat.
    I set the table and put on coffee.
    The pan is popping now so I pour some omelet jizz onto the metal and let it spread out into a perfect O.
    When it gets hard enough, I fold over the yellow O into a D and flip it a few times, until the outside gets golden brown.
    “Amber, someday you really have to let me cook for you. I’m getting to feel like Thomas Jefferson every time I come down into my kitchen and see you slaving away. You’re robbing me of all my Mom-ness and making me feel like writing some sort of proclamation or something.”
    I just smile dumbly at Donna and shake my head—spatula in