he’d hidden at the bottom of the rubbish bin when his grandma came in behind him.
You and I need to have a talk, my boy,” she said, standing in the doorway and blocking his escape.
“I have a name, you know,” Conor said, pushing down on the bin. “And it’s not my boy.”
“Less of your cheek,” his grandma said. She stood there, her arms folded.
He stared at her for a minute. She stared back. Then she made a tutting sound.
“I’m not your enemy, Conor,” she said. “I’m here to help your mother.”
“I know why you’re here,” he said, taking out a cloth to wipe an already clean countertop.
His grandma reached forward and snatched the cloth out of his hand.
I’m here because thirteen- year-old boys shouldn’t be wiping down counters without being asked to first.
He glowered back at her. “Were you going to do it?” “Conor–”
“Just go,” Conor said. “We don’t need you here.”
“Conor,” she said more firmly, “we need to talk about what’s going to happen.”
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