I looked at Juli and tried to picture my grandmother as an eighth grader. It was hopeless.
I mean, Juli’s got long, fluffy brown hair and a nose full of freckles, where my grandmother had always been some variety of blond.
And my grandmother had used powder. Puffy white powder. She’d put it on her face and in her hair, in her slippers and on her chest….
That woman powdered everything. I could not see Juli coated in powder.
Okay, maybe gun powder, but the white perfumy stuff? Forget it.
I guess I was staring, because Juli says, “Look, I didn’t say it, he did. I just thought it was nice, that’s all.”
“Yeah, whatever. Well, good luck with the grass. I’m sure it’ll come up great.”
Then I totally surprised myself by saying, “Knowing you, you’ll get ’em all to hatch.”
I didn’t say it mean or anything, I really meant it.
I laughed, and then she laughed, and that’s how I left her—sprinkling her soon-to-be sod, smiling.
I hadn’t been in such a good mood in weeks. The eggs were finally behind me. I was absolved. Relieved. Happy.
It took me a few minutes at the dinner table to realize that I was the only one who was.
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