Total pages in book: 238
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
“She likes the records,” Butler told me.
I looked over at the stack of vinyls, some stuffed haphazardly back into their sleeves laying alongside the old turntable. I’d found the whole lot at an estate sale last weekend. Thought she’d get a kick out of it, fifties baby that she was.
Well, she wasn’t born in the fifties. She was way older than that. But she was a teen in the fifties.
Mrs. Butler gathered her purse, pulling out her keys. “You’ll be okay?”
I nodded, but I didn’t look at her.
She left, and I stayed with Grandma for a bit longer, making sure I had her pills and shot ready for later, and I opened the window a few inches, letting in some fresh air, which Mrs. Butler asked us not to do, since the allergens in the air could aggravate her breathing.
Grandma said, “To hell with it.” This was her favorite time of year, and she loved the sounds and smells. I didn’t want to make her miserable merely to continue a life of misery.
Bringing up the room’s camera on my phone, I left the door open a crack, grabbed my bag from my room, and headed downstairs, starting the water boiling on the stove. I set the phone on the kitchen table, keeping an eye on her in case she needed me, and laid out my books, going through the easy stuff first.
I logged onto my laptop, requesting all the books I’d need from the public library, a few from Meridian City that Thunder Bay didn’t have, all for my history report, and drew up my outline. I finished the WebQuest and packet for physics, completed my reading for Spanish, and then stopped to chop and sauté vegetables before starting literature.
Literature… I still hadn’t done the constructed responses and they were due tomorrow.
It’s not that I didn’t like the class. It’s not that I didn’t like books.
I just didn’t like old books. Third person, wonky paragraphs a mile long, and some dumb academic trying to force me to believe there’s profound meaning in the author’s overwritten description of a piece of furniture I don’t give two shits about. I’m pretty sure the author doesn’t even know what they were trying to do in the first place, and they were probably just high on laudanum when they wrote it.
Or soothing syrup or absinthe or whatever the kids were doing in those days.
They push this shit down our throats as if there were no quality stories being written anymore, and this was it for us. The House of the Seven Gables is what Caitlyn the Cutter, who sits three seats down from me, was supposed to find relevance in? Got it.
Of course, Lolita wasn’t that old. It just sucked, and I’m pretty sure it sucked in 1955, too. I’ll ask my grandma.
I soaked the pasta, cooked the peppers and onions, and fired up the meat, mixing everything together before popping it in the oven. After making a salad, I set the timer and pulled out the worksheet, reading the first question.
But then lights flashed, and I shot my gaze up, seeing a car turn into our driveway from out the window. Rain glittered in front of the headlights, and I jumped to my feet, closing my books and piling my papers, stuffing everything into my bag.
Heat curdled my stomach.
Shit. Sometimes he pulled a double shift or got caught up with a matter or two, and I was blessed with a night without him.
Not tonight, it seemed.
I pinched my thighs together, feeling like I was about to pee my pants, and threw my bookbag into the dining room where we never ate. I quickly set the table, and as the front door opened, I spun around and pretended to fluff the salad.
“Emory!” Martin called out.
I couldn’t stop my stomach from sinking like it did every day, but I plastered a bright smile on my face and peeked my head through the open kitchen doorway and down the hall.
“Hey!” I chirped. “Is it raining again?”
Just then, I realized I’d left my grandmother’s window opened. Dammit. I’d need to find a minute to run and close it before it soaked the floor and gave him an excuse.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “’Tis the season, right?”
I forced a chuckle. Droplets flew everywhere as he shook out his coat, and I watched him hang it up on the coat rack and head down the hallway toward the kitchen, his wet shoes squeaking across the wooden floor.
I had to remove my shoes at the door. He didn’t.
I pulled my head back, straightening and blowing out a steady breath. Picking up the salad and tossing forks, I spread my lips in a smile. “I was thinking of going jogging around the village later,” I told him, setting the bowl on the table.
He stopped, loosening his tie and giving me the side-eye. “You?”