Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 124029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“He didn’t look too beat up to me.” I turned off the grill, taking out the cleaning products from the cabinet next to the fridge.
“That’s because he wipes the floor with these guys. Though, I hear sometimes he lets them throw in a punch or two, just so people will bet on someone else. God help me, his eyes.” Karlie sucked on the remainder of her slushie, before dropping it in the trash. “They’re, like, radioactive green. And you can forge metal with his cheekbones. Seriously, he could destroy my life, and I would literally say thank you.”
I grunted, throwing water over the grill. It spat fumes in my face.
“C’mon. Give me the tea. The grill was too loud for me to hear anything. Did they say anything interesting? Any gossip?” She nudged me.
They said I was a freak.
“They were pretty tanked, so not much coherent conversation was going on. But they went gaga for the margarita slushies.” I scrubbed the grill.
“Wow. Totally riveting.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you think Tess and West are hooking up?”
“Probably. They’ll make a corny couple, though. Their names rhyme, for crying out loud.”
“Couple? Tess can dream on. West only does one-night stands. That’s a known fact.”
I offered a shrug. Karlie gave me an exasperated shove.
“God, you’re the worst gossip ever. I don’t even know why I bother. Last question: therapeutically-speaking, would you rather internet-stalk all the people in Michael Jackson’s ‘Black or White’ video and freak out about how old they are today, or give Barbie a Joe Exotic mullet?”
“The latter,” I mustered with a tired smirk, realizing how much I was going to miss her once she found a new employee to take most of her shifts. “I’d give Barbie a mullet, then dress her up as a cowgirl, put her in her Glam Convertible, and TikTok a video of her singin’ Bratz Dolls Ate My Pet.”
Karlie threw her head back and laughed. I peeked in her pocket mirror, which was sitting on the windowsill, checking my makeup.
The scar was mostly hidden.
I let out a relieved sigh.
The crunchy taco survives another day. Cracked, but not broken.
I got home at eleven. Grams was sitting at the kitchen table in her tattered calico housedress, the radio beside her playing Willie Nelson on full blast.
Grandma Savvy had always been an eccentric woman. She was the lady who went ham with her costumes each Halloween to welcome the trick-or-treaters. Who painted funny—often inappropriate—figures on the plant pots in her front yard, and danced at weddings like no one was watching, and cried watching Super Bowl commercials.
Grandmomma had always been quirky, but recently, she was confused, too.
Too confused to be left alone for longer than the ten-minute overlap between the time her caregiver Marla went home and I pulled into our garage.
I was three when my mom, Courtney Shaw, overdosed. She was lying on a bench in downtown Sheridan. A schoolboy found her. He tried to poke her with a branch. When she didn’t wake up, he freaked out and screamed bloody murder, attracting half the school kids in our town and a few of their parents.
Word spread, pictures were taken, and the Shaws had officially become Sheridan’s black sheep. By then, Grams was the only mother I knew. Courtney played a game of revolving doors with an array of tweaker boyfriends. One of them was my father, I assumed, but I’d never met him.
Grams never asked who my father was. She was probably wary of opening that can of worms and going through a custody battle with Lord-knows-who. The chances of my father being a respectable hard worker or a Sunday service attendee weren’t exactly high.
Grams raised me like her own daughter. It was only fair now that she was not fully independent, I stuck around and took care of her. Besides, it wasn’t like the job offers were pouring in from Hollywood and I was missing out on some huge career.
Reign De La Salle was mean, but he wasn’t wrong. With a face like mine, the only roles I could snag were that of a monster.
I entered the kitchen, dropping a kiss on Grams’ cloud of white, candyfloss hair. She caught my arm and pulled me down for a hug. I let out a grateful sigh.
“Hi, Grams.”
“Gracie-Mae. I made some pie.”
She braced the table, pulling herself up with a groan. Grams remembered my name. Always a good sign, and probably why Marla let her stay here by herself before I arrived.
Our house was a seventies graveyard, consisting of all the interior design atrocities you could find in that era: green tile countertops, wood paneling, rattan everything, and electronics that still weighed about the same as a family car.
Even after we redid big chunks of our ranch-style after the fire, Grams went to a Salvation Army thrift store and bought the oldest, most mismatched furniture she could find. It was like she was allergic to good taste, but as with all quirks, when they belonged to someone you loved, you learned how to find the beauty in them.