Touch (Denazen #1)(93)

“It’s okay. I’m not the sentimental type, either.” Mom cured me of that.

Gentle understanding softens her face. “Few in life really are.”

Why do I get the feeling Grandma is one of those few?

She makes her way out of the room and pauses when she reaches the door. “Your mother didn’t say. How long are you here for?”

No surprise Mom hasn’t dropped that bomb yet. I pull my duffel onto my lap, a protective gesture. “I’m not sure.”

Even Grandma will be able to see through that lie. If she doesn’t, she’ll definitely know something’s up when I register for high school.

She nods, and nibbles at her lower lip. “Well, then. I guess I’ll leave you to unpack. Come on out when you’re done. Dinner won’t be long.”

As the door closes, she eyes me with those strange, pale eyes of hers. I shiver. How weird to be creeped out by your own grandmother.

I’d lay bets on Mom stalling the inevitable “talk” for a whole week, locked in the time capsule of her childhood bedroom, wailing about Jared, and ignoring me and everyone else.

I’m not waiting for her to get all the drama out before I start my new life.

I quickly fill the first two drawers of the old, knotty wood dresser, with its crystal knobs and chipped mirror, before making a quick exploration of my space. The wood smells like lemons, the bathroom like vanilla, and the bed sheets like flowers. I’ve never smelled so many different scents in one place before. Mom never dusts, uses cheap laundry soap, and tosses me a book of matches, telling me not to set myself on fire while I get rid of the stench. Nothing says “home” like sulfur and burnt sticks. I’m beginning to see how different Mom is from Grandma.

Maybe it’s a generational thing? But when I think about it, Grandma isn’t that old. Mid-fifties, tops. She has old-lady taste, though. I run a finger along the bristle of an antique hairbrush sitting on the dresser. Beside it are a silver-handled mirror and a tintype photograph of a man and a woman wearing Wild West-type clothing, standing in front of this house. Neither is smiling.

Something hard smacks the window, and I jump. Looking out, I don’t see anything. Only tiny, flittering bugs. Still…I glance around the room and shiver. I feel like I’m being watched.

Okay, time to leave.

When I step into the hall and close the bedroom door, the smell of roasting meat makes my mouth water. Mom’s a vegetarian—no way will she be eating. She’s been fasting for a few days, anyway. In her mind, it adds to the drama of the moment. Too bad, because eating meat in front of her while she tries to win me over to the “animals have feelings, too” philosophy is the only time she looks at me.

As I make my way down the hall, I hear a deep, unfamiliar voice. “Are we supposed to be okay with this?”

I soften my steps, moving slowly, and listen.

“Of course we are,” Grandma says. “She’s our daughter.”

A chair scrapes the floor, and the man grunts as he sits. “It’s been seventeen years. Are you telling me she couldn’t find a phone?” There’s a moment of silence before I hear fingers snap. His voice drops to a hush, highlighting its rough, sandpaper quality. “Who was that boy, the one with the stringy hair…Chris something or another?”

“Mandling?”

“That’s it. Chris Mandling. It’s got to be him. I never liked that boy.”

“No,” Grandma hisses back. “They shipped him off to military school almost a year before Addison left.”

“Lucy Jones’ boy?”

“Be serious. He had buck teeth and a lisp.”

“He got braces and a speech therapist. He’s fine now.”

The sounds of Grandma pulling the dinner together grow louder, and I stop before reaching the threshold to the kitchen. Mom would have a fit if she heard this.

“Think shallow teenage girl,” Grandma says.

“Raymond Tiller.”

Grandma sighs her frustration. “He’s black.”

“He was around,” he whispers in his defense.

Plates and flatware clatter when she sets them on the table. “I know, but Dylan is as white as they come.”

“Mark Taylor, then. He’s the whitest boy I know.”

“With red hair and freckles. I don’t know…”

“You used to like red hair.”

“I still do, but we’re talking about Addison.”

“I know, I know, but I’m doin’ this off the top of my head. Most of those boys left the second she did.”

There’s a moment of silence. Within that time, I realize Mom must’ve been the high school slut if they can come up with this many possibilities, plus other guys whose names they can’t remember. Why am I not surprised?

“Hey!” the man says louder than he should, and then quickly lowers his voice again. “How about Kenny Jacks or his friend, Donny Raynor?”

Grandma lets out a thoughtful hmm. “Kenny was a handsome boy, if I recall.”

“And always throwing rocks at her window. I nearly shot him that one night, remember?” Excitement ripples through his voice.

“I do.”

Kenny Jacks. I thrust my hands in my jean pockets and jiggle my fingers within. I could be Dylan Jacks instead of Dylan Kennedy.