Page 4 of Shots on Net

“Hey, Grandma.” I lean over her favorite chair and give her the best hug I can, with her seated. She beams up at me, eyes clear beneath a cap of white hair. I just saw her this morning before I left to meet with Carter about the available bedroom, but her age and frailness is always reminding me just how little time I have left. I feel like I need to treat every minute with her like it’s our last minute. Lots of hugs and lots of I love you’s.

“Hi, sweetie. How did your appointment go? Is it a nice house? Was he a nice boy?”

“Everything was really good, it’s going to be perfect. Actually, Carter is here to meet you and help me move my things.” I wave for Carter to shuffle into view. He’s got his sleeves pulled down and clenched in his fists. It’s futile—anyone can see the ink scaling his neck and the silver nose ring glinting in the light. He looks precisely like someone you wouldn’t introduce to your grandma.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Carter.” He holds up one of his clenched hands, waving it a bit. I bite my lip so that I don’t laugh.

“Oh goodness, well, hello there.” Grandma climbs out of her chair and approaches him. Carter looks like he wants to retreat, but remains steadfast. He’s at least a foot taller than her, and twice as wide. I’ve never seen anyone look so frightened of someone so harmless. Grandma wraps a hand around his wrist, pulling it toward her and patting his hand. “Carter, is it? What a nice name for such a lovely looking boy. Come on with me, Carter, let’s get you something to eat.”

She keeps ahold of his arm and pulls him into the kitchen. He looks over at me and I grin, mouthing lovely looking boy at him. His wide-eyed look turns to one of squinty-eyed annoyance. Something clicks into place between us; I think I’m going to enjoy living with Carter Morgan III.

Carter

Zeke’s grandma looks like a stiff wind could blow her away. She tells me I can call her Grandma too, if I want, and then deposits me at the dining room table. There’s a half-finished puzzle on the table and the chairs are all mismatched. I’ve never felt so out of place as I do right now, in my black sweats and too-big-for-this-house body. Everything in here looks breakable, including Zeke and his grandma.

“Do you like coffee cake, honey?” She brings me a plate with a piece on it before I can answer, setting it down in front of me and placing her hand on my shoulder. It startles me, and I flinch; people never touch me, and certainly not little old ladies.

“Uh, yeah, coffee cake is good. Thank you.” I try the cake. It’s dry and decidedly not good. I’m fucking starving though, so I eat the whole thing while she chats and have half a mind to ask for more. I don’t know where Zeke went off to, but I hope he comes back soon. His grandma left a glass of juice in front of me too, so I gulp that down as well. “Where did Zeke go?”

“Oh, he probably went to his room to pack, I’ll show you the way. Give you a tour, shall I?”

She links her arm through my elbow, like I’m escorting her to a Ball. I hope she can’t smell how sweaty I am, since I worked out and didn’t shower before coming. I hope she hasn’t noticed my tattoos, peeking out around my shirt. Thank god I put on something that had sleeves.

She walks me through the house, pointing things out and telling me stories. There are dozens of pictures of Zeke: baby pictures, elementary school pictures, band pictures, and pictures of him playing chess. There’s a picture of Zeke doing fucking everything, like I’m walking through a shrine. It makes me feel faintly ill, being slapped with so much blatant love. There’s not a single picture of me in my parents’ house; my mom would laugh herself silly if I asked to see family photos from when I was growing up.

It’s a relief when we get to Zeke’s room. There is a helpful sign on the door proclaiming Zeke’s Room that looks like it’s been hanging here for a decade. It’s probably something I should make fun of him for, but my throat feels a little tight and everything in this house makes me feel awful—holding up a mirror to my own childhood home and revealing what was wrong. I want to leave.

His grandma knocks on the door. “Sweetheart, your friend is here to help you.”

The door is pulled open before she even finishes speaking, and there is Zeke, the fucking deserter. “Thanks, Grandma. Get him all fed up? He was working up a sweat before we got here.”

“All taken care of. I’ll pack you up something for the road. You kids have fun.” She pats my arm, smiles at me the same way she was just smiling at her grandson, and shuffles off down the hallway. The hallway is lined with more photos of Zeke, and lots of framed art that was done by a childish hand. I hate it here; I really fucking hate it here.

Feeling inordinately sweaty, I push past Zeke and enter his room. He shuts the door quietly behind me, and walks over to his bed. Open on the mattress is a shabby suitcase, half filled with clothes. There’s a desk pushed against one wall; I pull the chair out, flip it around, and straddle it.

“Make yourself at home,” he tells me.

“Your grandma is nice.” Literally the nicest person I’ve ever met. Nobody is ever as nice to me as she was, which probably says more about her than it does about me.

“She called you lovely,” Zeke reminds me, and grins. He’s folding his clothes carefully before putting them in the suitcase.

Scowling, I kick a foot against the leg of the chair. “So what?”

“So nothing. She’s never wrong, though. If she says you’re lovely, then you’re lovely.”

“Stop saying lovely.” I wonder if he’d think I was lovely if he knew I’d once set my uncle’s house on fire. “Can you hurry up? I want to go home.”

He looks at me, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He’s got dirty blonde hair that’s in desperate need of a haircut, and light blue eyes. There’s no trace of facial hair, and he’s got the sort of skinny face that looks born of missed meals and not genetics. I have no idea how old he is, but with the baby face and his small stature, he looks barely older than fifteen.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know why I said that. Take your time. Also, how old are you?”

Zeke is still staring at me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s expecting to see, but he needs to focus on packing and not on my face. He gives a startled laugh when I ask his age and I glare at him.

“Uhm, I’m in my junior year. I’m twenty, but I’ll be twenty-one in a couple of months.”

“You look twelve, or something.”

“And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.

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