and after fuming about my sorry excuse for a grandfather for a while, I shoved the newspaper in the bottom drawer of my desk.
Like I needed to know any more about Juli Baker. At dinner my mother asked me why I was so sulky, and she kept looking from me to my grandfather.
Granddad didn’t seem to need any salt, which was a good thing because I might have thrown the shaker at him.
My sister and dad were all business as usual, though.
Lynetta ate about two raisins out of her carrot salad, then peeled the skin and meat off her chicken wing and nibbled gristle off the bone,
while my father filled up airspace talking about office politics and the need for a shakedown in upper management.
No one was listening to him – no one ever does when he gets on one of his if-I-ran-the-circus jags – but for once Mom wasn’t even pretending.
And for once she wasn’t trying to convince Lynetta that dinner was delicious either.
She just kept eyeing me and Granddad, trying to pick up on why we were miffed at each other.
Not that he had anything to be miffed at me about. What had I done to him, anyway? Nothing. Nada.
But he was, I could tell. And I completely avoided looking at him until about halfway through dinner, when I sneaked a peek.
He was studying me, all right. And even though it wasn’t a mean stare, or a hard stare, it was, you know, firm.
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