“Her moodiness...” my mother says in a loud whisper to Aunt Arlene. “It's those teenage hormones.”I glare at the back of her head. She'd be moody too if she were responsible for Elvis Presley's death.“Shhhh,” Aunt Arlene scolds. “It's on.”They sit on the couch in my mother's house trailer, suffocating me with cigarette smoke and sorrow. My cousin Lisa is sprawled across the La-Z-Boy. She hasn't spoken all evening. Together we watch the TV flash pictures of shocked and weeping fans. I utter not a word of the heartbreak I've unleashed.Living in a t