Page 5 of Nerdelicious
“Dearly beloved.” Granny always starts like we’re at a royal wedding.
I close my eyes. Not because I’m devout, but because it’s better than staring at the walls, which are painted in three different primary colors bright enough to hurt the eyes. The fourth wall is white, but it’s also hung with an abstract mural made up of tiny penises. Penii? Is there a plural? Whatever it is, I don’t want to stare at it.
“We are gathered here today to join in our love and appreciation for this fine meal. We thank you for keeping us safe from great heights, devil chickens, and whatever that child is watching on TikTok. Protect our souls from evil hellfire and young boys, especially those of us under twenty. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
“Amen,” Grace and I contribute.
“Will you pass the beans?” Grace asks and I hand her the bowl of green beans.
There’s a substantial amount of food in serving dishes set around the heavy mahogany table. Pulled pork, green beans, mashed potatoes, biscuits. One thing about eating in the South is you do a lot of it. Which is not a complaint. I love food almost as much as I love my fandoms.
“Are you going to Jude’s party?” Granny asks.
I finish chewing my biscuit and look pointedly at Grace. Then over at Granny. “No.”
“You should go,” she says, spearing a green bean with her fork. “You could take the Cadillac.”
“Really?”
That evil genius. It’s not just a regular old Caddy. It’s a 1956 Cadillac DeVille convertible. And it’s pink. It’s atrocious and I love it and she knows it.
When I first came to stay with Granny, I drove her around for her errands. Because of her fainting spells, she didn’t want to get behind the wheel, just in case. But she hates people driving her car, especially me. I never had to drive much in New York because of public transportation, and owning a car in the city is a nightmare. I can drive, but I’m a little... rusty. As evidenced by the fact that every time I drove her anywhere, Granny would pray for her life. Loudly. Now she’s conveniently had zero issues with light-headedness over the past couple of months and no longer requires being chauffeured around town.
Stay strong, Fred.“That’s kind of you, Granny, but it’s fine. I can hang out here.”
I don’t miss the glances darting between them.
“Unless I’m not wanted.” I try to ignore the sting of rejection. I know they mean well, and I know they’re right—I’ve spent enough time moping around—but it still hurts.
“Of course you’re wanted,” Granny says. “It’s just...” She side-eyes Grace before leaning in my direction and stage-whispering, “You know the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Granny!”
Grace is grinning. “Does this mean I can invite boys over?”
Granny points her fork at Grace. “Hell no, young lady, you aren’t dating until you’re thirty.”
“Not fair.”
Granny shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. “Fairness is to reality as horses are to pickles.”
Grace rolls her eyes with a sigh. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Exactly.” Granny turns back to me. “So? Are you going?”
I shrug and push at my food with my fork. “I don’t think so. I just don’t feel up to it.”
“Fine. If you’re staying here, you can help with... mowing the back lawn.”
“Okay. I can help you.” I’ve never actually seen anyone mow the back lawn. It’s ginormous and I swear Granny told me it was some kind of buffalo grass that didn’t need maintenance. But whatever. It’s nice to be needed.
“Fred, no!” She waves a hand at me. “That was supposed to scare you away.” She takes a breath and then fixes me with a stare. “Go live your life or I’m calling your momma.”
“Ugghhh,” I groan. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Or I’ll pretend to go. Various ways to get out of it buzz through my mind like anxious bees.
Anything to avoid a Granny/Mom tag team.
