and has honking contests.

“What I did was an under-reaction

after learning that

my mother planned for me

to have possibly life-ending surgery.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.

It’s an option.

That’s all I’m saying.”

“Aunt Zoey almost died

from that same surgery.”

“She was bigger than you.

More out of shape than you.”

“So you hate looking at me so much

you’re willing to chance

me dying on an operating table

or later from complications?”

Mom looks at me

instead of the road.

“I’ve never said I hate looking at you.”

“DART bus!”

I scream, and point.

She swerves.

“You’re out of control with your eating,

with that little episode back there.”

“And you’re a control freak.

Inventorying food.

Refusing to buy me clothes.

Trying to bribe me.

Or are we only allowed

to talk about my flaws?”

Fire ants’ bites leave

swollen red spots

that turn into blisters,

making the pain last longer,

not unlike what we say to each other.

Mom turns onto our driveway

and jerks us both forward again

as she parks.

She throws her hands up in the air.

“I’m trying to help!”

“Yeah.

By so-called ‘fixing me.’

Well, guess what?

I’m not broken!

And if I am,

it’s because of you,

not my weight.”

I slam the SUV door

and stomp to the house.

NOT MY FIRST RODEO

“Whoa!”

Dad says, using his firm rodeo voice

as if I’m a horse

out of control

when I slam the front door.

“Whatcha all bowed up about?”

“As if you don’t know!”

I pound up the stairs.

Mom slams the front door.

“Get back down here, Eliana Elizabeth!”

She’s ready for another go-around.

Bring. It. On.

“You Judased me, Dad!

You said you never would.

And you did.”

“What in tarnation

are you talkin’ about?” he says.

He looks at me, then Mom.

“Somebody’d better tell me

what’s going on here.”

Mom’s motionless.

Quiet.

Then it hits me

like a big whiff of

fresh bull crap in an arena:

Dad doesn’t know.

She’s gone behind

both of our backs.

This ought to be good.

“How’d you see

all of this playing out, Mom?

Dad leaves for work one day,

you sneak me to the hospital,

I have weight-loss surgery,

and we’re home by dinner?”

Dad jerks his head toward Mom,

who’s staring at the floor.

“One thing Zayde taught me was

if a person can’t look you in the eye,

you’ve got problems,” Dad says.

“Big problems.”

Mom folds her arms across her chest

and heads toward Dad’s office,

her heels click-clicking.

He follows her,

then stops and looks up at me,

still frozen on the stairs.

“I’m so sorry, Ellie.

Truly, I am.”

He slams his office door.

And their biggest fight ever begins.

WAVES OF EMOTION

“What’s up?”

Doc leans in,

rests her elbows on her knees