Page 15 of Resisting Mr. Granville

Chapter five

Kennedy

Movie night at the Granville house.

I’ve spent as much time dreading it as I have looking forward to it.

Of course, that’s how I feel about most weekends. On one hand I don’t have to get up early for school. On the other, I have to be at home the whole time with my mother, and my only refuge is the shift or two I work at the local fast-food chain—which isn’t much of a refuge at all. It’s a meat market in the kitchen and a pit of snakes up front. If someone isn’t trying to fuck you, someone else is spreading bullshit rumors that you’re fucking someone—or everyone—to explain why you got a customer compliment card and they didn’t.

It’s lunacy, and all for a few bucks an hour.

But it’s the only way I can pay for my phone, and that’s a necessity. I used to have a line on my mother’s plan, but after the Milo thing over the summer, she decided to cancel my line without even telling me.

It was obnoxious and pissed me off at the time, but I was actually a lot happier once my phone was truly my own and she had nothing to do with it. Over the summer it wasn’t even as big of a deal because I wasn’t in school. I was able to work much more. I can’t work as many shifts and keep up with my homework, so now I really only work enough to pay for the phone and gas, and sometimes there’s not enough for both.

I could have picked up a shift tonight. Bethany tried calling off, but she calls off so much that the manager told her she could only have the night off if she found someone else to take her shift. Everyone knows I usually say yes to an extra shift on the weekend, but when she texted me, I had to tell her I was sorry, but I already had plans.

“What are you doing?” she texted back, clinging to hope that maybe she could talk me into rearranging my plans so she wouldn’t have to cancel hers.

I didn’t bother answering her.

Now, I rush to gather my things to transfer over to my old purse. The strap broke on the one I’ve been using just as I was about to walk out the door, and I don’t know how much time I have. Not time before I’m supposed to meet Jet at his house, but time before my mom will get home from work.

There’s a knock at the door as I shove my cherry ChapStick into the inside pocket and zip it up.

No, that’s not right. It’s too lazy to be a knock. It’s a knock that gave up before knuckles even connected with wood.

I don’t know why Mom would knock unless she forgot her keys, but I would think she would’ve noticed that when she got to her car earlier. If she wanted to go anywhere, she would have had to come back in for them.

I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder, then head to the front door to peek out the peephole.

A man is standing on the other side. A white T-shirt is stretched taut across his hairy beer gut. His whiskered double chin seems even bigger somehow through the peephole, and God help him, he thinks he can pull off a mustache.

My lip curls with disgust as I debate whether or not to let Mom’s new boyfriend in.

He isn’t looking at the door even though he almost knocked on it. His head is turned like he’s waiting for someone.

A few seconds later, I see my mom’s washed-out dye job and hair that desperately needs trimming. She’s thin, unlike him, but a ragged kind of thin, not a glamorous, aspirational kind of thin.

I back up just as she opens the door.

She halts with her keys still in her hand and stares at me in surprise. “You’re home.”

“Just about to leave,” I tell her.

“Why didn’t you open the damn door? Larry knocked.”

Larry follows her in, his gaze raking over me. Not in the sexy, scorching way that Milo’s did, but in a greasy way that leaves me feeling the need for a hot shower.

I’m dressed casually and comfortably in layers. A thin black shirt underneath in case I get hot, but it shows a few inches of my stomach and Larry’s gross gaze gets stuck there. Self-consciously, I shift so that my oversized, taupe cable knit sweater will drift over and cover a bit of skin.

I’m wearing a coat unzipped over my outfit, but it doesn’t feel like enough coverage. I’m not sure there’s enough coverage in the world, and I wonder how my mom can bear being touched by him.

What a downgrade.

Shuddering, I lean to the side and push past my mom, muttering, “I’ve gotta go or I’ll be late.”

She doesn’t ask where I’m going. She doesn’t care.

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