by Mary Frame
“What?” I ask.
She’s halted on the step, eyes wide, hand on her chest. “Maybe she bosses him around in the bedroom,” she whispers, lifting her brows with mock horror. I roll my eyes and keep going up the stairs while she bursts into laughter behind me. “You should see your face.”
I toss the offending garment through Granny’s door and it lands on the floor somewhere with a whisper of fabric.
Time for a subject change.
“I’m showering first!” I holler and beeline to the bathroom, but Grace is closer and hustles inside, shutting the door on my face before I can stop her.
“You suck!” I yell.
Her response is loud laughter. “I’ll be fast.”
“Yeah right.” I head downstairs. I’ll find Granny while I’m waiting three years for the shower.
She’s out back in the shade of the awning, relaxing in a rocking chair, feet up on the patio table, smoking something that definitely isn’t a cigarette.
I clear my throat and her feet whip down, hand shoving the joint down under her chair in a delayed attempt to hide it.
“Granny,” I say, ready to give her the same lecture the doctor gave her at her last appointment.
“Oh, hey Fred girl.” She’s all innocent smiles. “Glad you made it back. Earlier I was feeling a little,” she coughs, “afflicted, you know, stressed out. And it’s not good to make my blood pressure rise, doctor’s orders. So we should make sure we don’t talk about anything . . . troubling.”
“Uh-huh.” This is her way of avoiding the topic. So I move on to the next. “I found your bra on the banister.”
“Hmmm.” She’s still stubbing out her joint under the chair and pretending like I can’t see it.
“I put it in your room.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Fred girl. Are you hungry? I’m smoking a brisket.”
“That’s not all your smoking,” I mutter.
She gives me the stink eye and then leans back in the rocking chair. “Where’s little Miss Grace?”
“In the shower.”
She doesn’t say anything else about the random bra left lying around and I can’t ask her, now can I?
She asks about camping and I sit on the porch with her, relaying the basics. Then we discuss dinner and what needs to be done around the farm.
Behind me, inside the house, the phone rings. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it ring. I didn’t even know people still had landlines until I came here. It sits up on the wall, attached to a base. It even has a cord, like some 1990s sitcom.
“Oh, that’s right,” Granny says. “Someone from New York called for you. That’s likely them now.”
I stand. It’s still ringing. “Who is it?”
“Someone for an interview. They tried your cell first. Told them you would be out of range until today.”
“Was it an accounting firm?” But that interview isn’t until next week.
“No, it was something else.” She squints. “Some comic store or something.”
Not a comic store, Comix, the restaurant chain.
Mumbling a curse, I race inside to grab the phone, which is miraculously still ringing. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Fredericka Klein?”
“This is she.” I twist the receiver away from my mouth, keeping the top part on my ear so I don’t pant down the line.
“This is Amber Hoover from the Comix group. How are you doing?”
“I’m great.” I am not great. This is terrible. A nightmare come to life.
“I’m so glad I was able to reach you. Do you have a few minutes to talk with us today?”
Amber sounds way too happy and upbeat. Doesn’t she realize I’m dying inside? She keeps talking and I try to listen, but my heart is hammering and nerves are turning my stomach to mush. They want to interview me. Right now.
“This is just a preliminary,” she says, her voice barely intelligible through the thundering of my pulse. “No pressure, just wanted to get a feel for the type of ideas you can bring to the table.”
“Right, of course, no problem.” I push out the words around a thick tongue. Of course I have to agree, I can hardly say no.
“So this is just a quick exercise to see what you’ve got and how well you can come up with ideas under pressure. For this example, let’s say you have to pick one central theme for multiple venues and convince our marketing team to develop the concept. What would you use and how would you sell it?”
My mind is blank. This is impossible. This is like asking me to . . . cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with a herring.
A light bulb illuminates over my head.
“Blessed are the cheesemakers.”
A confused laugh in my ear. “What?”
My heart sinks. Either I’m too nerdy even for Comix, or Comix are a bunch of posers hiring the nerd-illiterate Ambers of the world.
Ten minutes later, I hang up and barely remember the entirety of the interview. What did they ask? What did I say? Was it coherent? Who knows?
All I can recall is that Grace came into the kitchen at one point, made faces at me, and then emulated whatever I was saying in a high-pitched, shrieky voice.
What have I done?
“How did it go?” Grace asks when I swing open the door to her room. She’s sitting where she usually is, at her desk, tapping away at the computer.
“Terrible.” I flop backward onto her bed.
“Yeah. It sounded pretty bad.”
I grab some of her pillows and press them on top of my face, groaning into the fabric.
“Those pillows bothering you?” Grace asks without turning around.
“They’re not suffocating me fast enough.”
She snorts. “At least mine don’t have faces on them. Yours are weird.”
She’s referring to the Supernatural pillowcase Scarlett got me for Christmas. I yank one of the pillows off my face. She’s still got her back to me, but she’s turned her head to the side. At least my mortal demise made her move that much. “You’re too young to truly understand the allure of sleeping with Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki under one’s cheek. But I will teach you, young padawan.”
“Whatever.” Her attention goes back to the computer, lines of indecipherable code scrolling across the screen. Probably something nefarious that she shouldn’t be doing.
I glance around the room. It was Scarlett’s, once upon a time, but Grace has made it her own. It’s not what one might expect from a fourteen-year-old girl. No posters on the walls, only a few pictures of her with Beast and Jude. There’s one of all of us from this past Christmas. The desk is a mess of computer parts, a motherboard, CPU, an extra processing case. More stuff I couldn’t identify if someone paid me.
“So what did you hear? I think I blacked out most of the conversation.”
She turns her head again and scrunches her nose. “You said something about the Spanish Inquisition?”
I groan and cover my face again.
“What were you talking about?”
“They wanted an on-the-spot pitch, and I think I was trying to sell them on a chain of Monty Python–themed restaurants.”
“Who?”
I groan and cover my face again. “Come on, Grace, it’s a British comedy troupe. Their movies are on Netflix!”
“Yeah, sounds great. I also heard you rambling about elderberries.”
I wave a hand in the air. “That’s still Monty Python.”
“Interesting.” But her tone is flat and bored.
I sit up, the pillows tumbling onto the bed around me. “I’m awful at interviewing in person, but on the phone it’s worse. I thought I was being somewhat funny, but you can’t read the room over the phone. Maybe they were smiling, maybe they were making throat slashing motions, I will never know.”
There’s no way they are going to hire you. Delores Umbridge is back. You have little experience and an entirely useless degree.
I mentally flip Delores off and wa
llow on Grace’s bed some more, listening to her clicking away.
Something nearby beeps and Grace shuffles around. Her chair squeaks. “Beast isn’t coming over until after dinner. He’s doing something for Jude right now, but he’s staying the night because I wanted him to come with me to my appointment in the morning.”
This explains why Beast stays the night and is never here when I wake up in the late mornings or early afternoons after a shift. He wakes up early to go with Grace to her appointments. It’s so sweet but . . . isn’t he exhausted? He’s continually doing things for her and Jude, putting all their wants ahead of his own—even sleep takes a back seat.
I shake my head.
Let it go. None of my business.
“Oh. Great.” I sit up. I better go . . . do something with myself. I’m probably a mess.
My tone must betray me because she cocks her head at me. “Is something going on with you guys?”
“What? No. What do you mean?” I smooth down my hair. My voice is high and squeaky. I am terrible at prevarication.
She swivels in the chair to face me.
Uh-oh. Not good.
“This morning when we were packing up camp, I saw Beast hug you. But it was like a weird hug.”
“Um, he was trying to make me feel better. About my job search. I got some other rejections. Before the other one, just now.” I wince in an effort to seem upset. She’s going to see right through this.
Her head tilts. “Oh. Yeah. I guess he would understand.” She swivels back around and resumes her tapping.
My ears perk at this possible new information on the enigma that is Beast. “He would?”
She shrugs, still typing. “Yeah. He applied to a culinary place in Dallas last year. Got rejected.”
This is news. Annabel and Reese don’t know he actually applied somewhere. But it makes me wonder, would he be open to moving? Would Grace be okay with him leaving?
“He didn’t try again?”
The tapping stops. “I . . . I guess not.”
“Don’t you think he should reapply?”
“The culinary science degree at BFU is good.” She shrugs. “Besides, we like it here. It’s home, and we’ve never had that.”
Grace uses a lot of “we” speak, as if she and Beast are a unit instead of two separate people. Did she convince him not to apply anywhere else?
We’re silent for a little while, Grace doing something illegal, me trying to figure out a way to get her to drop more information.
“Beast cooked for you a lot when you were growing up?” I ask.
“Yeah. Our uncle—” The typing stops for a two-second beat. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Sorry.”
She shrugs. “We didn’t always know when we would get our next meal. Went to bed hungry more nights than not. But that’s all in the past.” She shakes it off and continues typing. “Anyway. I’m glad you and Beast are okay.”
“Right.” I nod. “We’re fine.”
“Just don’t get involved with him. You aren’t staying.”
My stomach plummets somewhere down to the vicinity of my toes.
She doesn’t turn around and there’s not even a hiccup in her fingers on the keyboard as she issues the command.
I pretend my heart isn’t stuttering to a halt. She’s not wrong. “Nothing’s happening.” I swallow hard. Time for a new topic. “If you ever want to talk to someone about whatever, you know I’m here.”
She scoffs. “Granny already makes me see a therapist. I don’t need more coddling.”
Aaand the teenager is back. “Thanks for letting me wallow. I’m going to help Granny with dinner.”
She nods but says nothing, her eyes fixed on her computer, her fingers moving at the speed of light while I leave the room.
Chapter Fifteen
“My dream job is being a driver for those shuttles from the airport.”
–Overheard at Comic-Con
* * *
“Dearly beloved, we thank you for this meal and for our time together on this earth. For the grass that grows, and the crows that sing,” she pauses, “thank you, Lord, for everything.”
Grace’s hand squeezes mine before she releases me. “Amen. Very poetic, Granny.”
“Do you think so? I reckon I could write my own sermons. I should give Pastor Michael a call.”
“So Granny, what did you do while we were gone?” Grace’s innocent smile and fluttering eyes fool no one.
“Oh, you know, just hung around the house. Did some chorin’ and all that.”
“Uh-huh. You know, Granny,” Grace spears some okra with her fork, “you’ve been disappearing a lot after supper and I can’t find you anywhere.”
“I got errands to run.” She fiddles with her napkin, moving it from the side of her plate to her lap.
Grace wrinkles her nose. “What errands?”
“None of your never mind. I don’t need permission from anyone to have my own time, let alone from a child. Fred, pass the gravy, please. Did I mention your mother called? She wants you to call her back when you get a chance.”
“Okaaay.” It’s Sunday, I always talk to them on Sundays. Granny knows that. “I’ll call her after dinner.” I hand her the gravy boat.
The change of subject doesn’t deter Grace. “Nothing is open in Blue Falls past seven except the diner and Bodean’s. So what kind of errands could you be running?”
Granny chews her food, taking her time to respond. “It’s a card night. With my friends. Pinochle.”
Grace and I exchange a glance.
“You have friends?” Grace asks.
I take a drink of water. I am not getting into this one.
Granny puts her fork down. “I’m very well liked.”
“You called Miss Prudence two bricks shy of a load,” Grace says.
“So?”
“You yelled it. Out loud. At church.”
Granny shrugs. “It’s only the truth. And it doesn’t mean I’m not well liked. But no matter. Fred girl, how’s the okra? Too much salt?”
Before I can answer, Grace opens her mouth to interrupt—probably with more questions—and Granny fixes her with a hard stare. “I may not have brought you into this world, but I can take you right out of it.”
Grace’s mouth closes with a click. Then she throws her head back and laughs.
“Death threats are what make you happy, huh?” I take a bite of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy.
Grace shrugs. “I’ve heard other kids’ parents tell them the same thing. Never thought anyone would care enough to threaten me with bodily harm for misbehaving. Will you pass the biscuits?”
After talking to my parents and assuring them that I’m still alive, healthy, and not wasting the entirety of my life in a hick town in Texas while living off the kindness of others, I spend the rest of the night hiding from everyone in my room. Once it’s dark enough, I climb out the bedroom window with a blanket and pillow.
But once I’m in my normal position, gazing up at the sky above, I don’t even register the stars. Instead, images from the night before flood my mind. The kissing. The talking. The everything else.
I shut my eyes and attempt to banish the memories from my brain. I need something else to think about.
Grace’s words at dinner come to mind. I recognize her badgering of Granny for what it is: a test. She presses Granny to the breaking point to see how she’ll respond. With discipline? With banishment? Or worse, with nothing at all? But Granny cares. She won’t kick Grace out. Granny won’t be sending Grace away no matter how badly she behaves—fake threats of violence notwithstanding.
My childhood was like growing up in Themyscira compared to hers. I am the luckiest person, with every opportunity, every privilege thrust at me like it’s mana raining from the sky. Parents who are always there, an education I didn’t have to work too hard for, food always on the table, and a roof over my head whenever I need it.
And yet here I am, moping a
bout my lack of job prospects and life problems. The reality is hard to stomach, but necessary. The only thing that’s ever really held me back is my own dumb decisions.
This revelation is still slopping shame all over me when the window below opens and there’s a gentle tap on my foot.
I sit up, wrapping my arms around my legs. Over the edge of the roof, Beast’s head appears.
Not like a disembodied head or anything. His head is followed by his shoulders and the rest of his large form, hauling himself up onto the roof in one smooth movement. He sits next to me, taking up most of the small space.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and types into it before showing me the screen. Checking on you.
A laugh huffs out of me. Of course. “Who checks on you?”
He freezes.
“Never mind. I’m stargazing while I can, because once I go back . . .” I trail off on a shrug.
We sit side by side in silence for long minutes. Despite last night, it’s not uncomfortable like I might have expected, even though we’re basically in the same position as we were when things went haywire. Sexy haywire.
He taps something out on his phone and shows it to me.
Did you tell your parents about the job interview today?
My head snaps up. “Did Grace blab? I’m gonna put toothpaste in her shampoo bottle.”
I swear his mouth turns up, but it’s hard to see for sure in the moonlight.
“I didn’t tell them. It was too embarrassing.” And if Grace is going to spill my secrets, I don’t feel so bad about spilling what she revealed. “Grace told me you applied to a culinary school in Dallas.”
He’s still again. Then he types, I didn’t get in.
“You could apply again. You know, there’s a really good one in New York. The Culinary Institute of America, the CIA. Wouldn’t it be pretty badass to tell people you go there?”
