“You know,” his grandma said, setting down her cup of tea, “there’s a tremendous independent boys’ school not half a mile from my house.
I’ve been looking into it, and the academic standards are quite high, much higher than he’s getting at the comprehensive, I’m sure.”
Conor stared at her. Because this was the other reason he didn’t like his grandma visiting.
What she’d just said could have been her being a snob about his local school.
Or it could have been more. It could have been a hint about a possible future. A possible after.
Conor felt the anger rising in the pit of his stomach– “He’s happy where he is, Ma,” his mum said, quickly, giving him another look.
“Aren’t you, Conor?” Conor gritted his teeth and answered, “I’m fine right where I am.”
Dinner was Chinese take-away. Conor’s grandma “didn’t really cook”. This was true.
Every time he’d stayed with her, her fridge had held barely anything more than an egg and half an avocado.
Conor’s mum was still too tired to cook herself, and though Conor could have made something,
it didn’t seem to occur to his grandma that this was even a possibility.
He’d been left with the clean-up, though, and he was shoving the foil packages down onto the bag of poisonous berries
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