My Almost Epic Summer Read Online Free PDF Page A

hops up from the table, trots over to the fridge and returns holding an old, crusty jar of farmer’s chutney. “Mom’s had this forever!” She smirks at me. “You hate yucky old stuff like that, ha ha, don’t you, Irene?” She opens the lids and sniffs deeply. “I remember you told me so when we played Food Chicken last year.” She digs out a spoonful of the glop and plops it in the bowl.
    “Well played,” I say. “You’re finally using some strategy.” I repress my shudder.
    Evan adds in some relatively neutral leftover macaroni and cheese. Both kids scream as I crack a raw egg. Lainie and I slurp it up record time.
    It’s Evan’s turn and he freezes. Puts down his spoon. Then stares at the lumpy, brownish pink stew. It is not an edible color.
    “It’s easier if you don’t look,” Lainie whispers encouragingly.
    Too late. The horrendous mixture has its grip on him. That’s a real pitfall of Food Chicken—if you’re not careful, you can get yourself into a frozen-on-the-diving-board moment. And Evan’s locked. He wags his head. “I can’t. I can’t do it.” Scowling, he eyes all the chips in the middle of the table. “It’s not worth it, anyhow. Stupid game.”
    “Well, I’m not going to lose,” Lainie says as she spoons up her second mouthful, washes it down and wipes her lips with her arm. “Go, Irene.”
    I try not to think about that jar of chutney decaying in the Prior’s fridge for Lord knows how long. At my second sickening bite, I feel myself waver. It’s only the dread idea of losing to Lainie—and what an obnoxious winner she would be about it for the entire rest of the summer—that gives me the courage to swallow.
    “Round six,” I gasp.
    Across the table, Lainie’s brow is furrowed. I know she is doing her best to keep from crying.
    “Time-out.” Evan signals Lainie over for a private summit. Their heads bow together, whispering. “Good! Go!” He slaps his sister on the back as Lainie scrapes her chair over to the fridge and pulls down a tin from the top.
    “Yummy, yummy. Christmas fruitcake,” she sings. “This is the way oldest food we have in the house.”
    “Ancient!” Evan raises his knees to his chest and slaps his hand over his mouth.
    “Primitive!” yelps Lainie as she trots over with the tin.
    “Prehistoric!”
    The smile I fake doesn’t let on that I’m all but doomed. I hate fruitcake, even in its most fresh-baked attempt at Christmas cheer. The concept of eating it in July might just be beyond my human capacity.
    Grinning, Lainie unwraps the foil and breaks off a piece, dropping it into the bowl in all its toxic glory. She mashes it up with the spoon. “On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me!” she screeches. Annoying as this is, I’ve got to tip my hat to Lainie for an unprecedented show of competitive spirit.
    Unfortunately for her, that’s why I have to make the decision to add in the dog food. It’s a cheap shot—what is it about little kids’ fear of eating dog food? I pour in the cupful of kibbles over Lainie’s shrieking, wriggling protest.
    “That’s against the rules!” she wails. “You said it has to be edible!”
    “It’s edible to Poundcake. Two bites won’t kill you. I’ll go first if you want.” I dip my spoon, close my eyes against the evil vision and swallow. The fruitcake sticks to the back of my throat, and I am pretty sure I can taste ancient, bacterial microbes. I gag and reach for my water glass, draining the last of my reserve.
    Lainie is watching me in a state of gloomy shock. “Are you gonna puke?” she asks.
    “Not a chance.”
    “You can do it, too, Lainie,” murmurs Evan. “You can!”
    Lainie’s mouth is set. “I’m not losing from dog food,” she says. And she tries. She really does. She plugs her nose and holds her glass of water ready. But when her chin starts to wobble, I can smell the money.
    “You lost, you lost!” crows Evan in full turncoat mode. “You lost half your