Page 3 of Nerdelicious
It’s me she’s talking about. I’m the fool.
Grace has one hand on the rope, lax and unconcerned, her other hand holding a cell phone up to her face, thumb scrolling over the surface.
Oh, yeah, they’re impressed.
I inch back to the ladder, using my free arm for balance while my legs grip and slide like an inchworm in reverse.
Grace snorts from below. “You look ridiculous.”
I finally reach the ladder, scrambling down in a clumsy, one-handed descent.
Granny stops her pacing when I reach the bottom. “All this for a damn bird that will likely be dinner next week.”
“We can’t eat Kylo Hen.” I hop off the ladder onto the barn’s clean hardwood floor. Since all of Granny’s stills and mash buckets are kept in here, she likes it sanitary. I clutch the chicken to my chest like Granny might attempt to throw her in the frying pan any second.
“Your first problem was naming them.” Granny shoots a look over at Grace, still on her phone. “No more screens.”
Grace shoves the phone in her back pocket and then proceeds to pick at the knot around my waist.
“Is that my only problem today?” I ask.
Grace laughs. “I’m betting you’ll have at least twelve more before sundown.” Her eyes gleam. She loves it when Granny and I squabble, even though it’s not really like we’re fighting or anything, it’s more Granny’s way of showing she loves me. I think.
She’s not actuallymygranny, but she sure does act like I’m part of the family. The part that annoys her.
“Dinner’s about done. You two get cleaned up. Grace, you set the table. Y’all have five minutes.” Granny stalks out of the barn, the door thwacking shut behind her.
The rope goes slack and Grace pulls it away, curling it around one arm and then hanging it on a hook on the wall.
“She’s just worried about you,” she says.
“I know. I gotta get Kylo Hen back in the coop. I’ll meet you inside.”
Grace scampers off to the house and I race across the expansive lawn. It stretches from the back of the house and disappears into tall grass and trees at the back of the property.
If the ranch and surrounding acreage could be compared to a piece of literature, it would be something written by Douglas Adams. Colorful and weird, and yet fitted together with seamless magic.
The chicken coop, for example, is purple, with a lime-green door and a squashed quadrangle of a window that doesn’t quite shut. It’s likely how Kylo Hen made her great escape. The coop is set back among large trees, nestled into their shade. I open the door and set the chicken down and then make sure everything is latched up tight before scurrying back through the heavy humidity to the house, my mind on the occupants inside.
I don’t want Granny to worry about me, or anything else. Have I overstayed my welcome? Probably. I’ve been here for six months. There’s nothing worse than a house guest who can’t take a hint.
I enter the house through the back door, thanking the gods of Asgard for air conditioning in the Deep South.
Dishes clang in the kitchen where Granny takes out her ire on the pots and pans. I tiptoe down the hall past the marching row of African fertility sculptures to the dark wood stairs that lead to the second floor.
My little guest room is tucked away on the second floor. It’s surprisingly simple, a spot of Jane Austen in the middle of a galactic comedy. The pale blue walls frame a full-size bed with a simple white frame and comforter, an oak dresser, and matching night stands. The rest of the house, on the other hand, is splashed in vibrant colors and spotted with abstract paintings and other esoteric art pieces and figurines.
I grab my Tardis tee, then hustle to the bathroom.
The door is shut. “Grace?” I knock. “Are you almost done?”
“Just a minute.”
I lean against the wall and wait for her to finish. The water runs, then shuts off. Then runs again. And off. Then the toilet flushes.
What is she doing in there?
I don’t have any siblings of my own, and I thought it might be kind of fun to have a live-in little-sister type. But she hogs the bathroom, doesn’t talk about anything important, and when she does open her mouth, it’s to ask me incessant questions like,How long are you staying?Why don’t you have a real job if you’re a grown-up?And my favorite,Aren’t you too old for toys?As if I’d ever be too old for the Baby Yoda Funko POP! figure on my nightstand.
