Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“I’m going to leave this right here for you. If it’s hot, you don’t have to wear tights. If it’s cooler, then the tights are in the top drawer. Wear your black patent shoes. And Faye will braid your hair.” Ruthie prepared me for her death.
Sort of …
She didn’t leave instructions for what would happen to me beyond dressing for her funeral. Will Fletcher comb my hair? Will he crawl into bed with me if I have a bad dream? Will he pack my lunch and tell Micah what to make me for breakfast?
“Did he buy you too?” I ask Milo to keep my nervous brain from wondering what happens next. I’m used to being with Milo in his truck when he drives me to school or smiling at him when he comes to the house to talk to Fletcher. This is different.
“What’s that?” Milo says with his back to me while he presses the sandwich into the skillet with a metal spatula.
It sizzles and smells a little burnt.
I clear my throat and find a stronger voice. “Did Mr. Ellington buy you too?”
Milo kills the stove’s flame and slides my sandwich onto a plate while eyeing me with a funny look. “No. He inherited me of sorts.” He sets the plate on the table. “Ketchup?”
“Yes, thank you,” I mutter while my shiny black shoes tap along the wood floor toward his small, round kitchen table. The chair squeaks too when I plunk down into it. It wiggles on uneven legs, so I try to hold still. “What does that mean?”
“Inherited?” One of his eyebrows slides up his forehead.
I nod again, tearing the sandwich in half before sucking my fingertips. It’s hot, and the cheese is extra gooey. Milo did a good job, even if the bread is a little black.
“It’s when something happens to someone, and their property goes to someone else. When my brother and I were separated, Fletcher inherited me.”
“I wonder who will inherit me?”
Milo chuckles, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge and unfolding his tall body into the chair across from me as he pops the top. “You lost one of your parents, not both. Mr. Ellington is your father. You belong to him.”
“He’s not my father. He could sell me.” I blow on the hot cheese and take a small bite, my nose wrinkling.
Milo pulls the bottle away from his lips; his smile vanishes. “Why would he sell you?” He nods to the sandwich. “Don’t like it?”
I shrug. “Because he bought me. For a million dollars.” I stare at the black toasted bread. “It’s good, just a little different. Kinda … black.”
“Grilled cheese should be charred. It might be an acquired taste. Just dip it in extra ketchup. And who said Mr. Ellington bought you for a million dollars?”
The ketchup bottle farts while I squeeze more onto my plate. It’s nearly empty. “A while back, I heard Faye talking to Ruthie. She said Mr. Ellington stole me from my other mom. But Ruthie said a million dollars is hardly stealing. So I asked her what they were talking about, and she said my mom couldn’t take care of me like I deserved to be taken care of, so Mr. Ellington gave her a million dollars to let me live here. And I guess my mom thought it was a good idea. I didn’t see her much. She worked a lot. I don’t miss her anymore, but I miss the other kids there, and I’m going to miss …” My words catch in my throat, making it impossible to say them.
Milo nods. “We’re all gonna miss her.”
“I don’t think he’s going to brush my hair.”
“You’re ten, Indie. I bet you can brush your own hair. I combed my hair when I was ten.” Milo has the best hair. Most boys keep their hair short, like Fletcher. But not Milo. He has brown hair, all in different lengths to his chin. It’s kind of messy. Maybe I should tell him he could try a little harder. It’s not ugly. Milo’s pretty. His skin is tan, and his eyes are the color of the sky around noon when I eat lunch and stare at the fluffy clouds. I used to look for familiar shapes in those clouds, but now I’m going to look for Ruthie.
“Were you mad at your brother for killing your parents?” I ask, trying to be polite and ask questions like Ruthie taught me. It’s hard when I’m sad and a little scared. What happens tomorrow? And the next day?
“Jesus Christ …” Milo’s head jerks backward, and he slaps his hand on the table with a hard thud. “Who told you that?”
I shrug. “I heard Ruthie and Grandma Hill talking.”
“Indie …” He removes his hat and tosses it onto the table before running his hands through his hair like he’s mad at it. “You need to mind your own business. It’s not polite to listen to other people’s conversations.”