Free Cheetos

This is me, in my Bluebird uniform, with my mother, two of my sisters and the Dowd kids. I joined the Bluebirds because they had free Cheetos at meetings. The taller boy was a genuine genius. He just kept skipping grades. The short one, his brother, with the peace sign around his neck, would sit in the back of our orange Fairlane 500 that my mother bought after my father died, and swear like a sailor in the back seat. Once, driving along I-91, Tim was on a particularly hefty streak of cuss words and my mother pulled over. “Get out of the car,” she said to him. “Go on, get out.” He didn’t say anything. He got out of the car. She started to pull away. “Mom, I said, he is not your kid. We have to go back and get him.” And we did. Classic Bluebird.

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