My goal comes closer with every kiss.
“By the way, it’s been nice seeing your face all week.”
“You see my face every day,” I say, confused.
He touches my cheek. “I mean your real face, not hidden behind all of that make-up. You’re so beautiful.”
“You’re a dork, Trev,” I say, looking away, embarrassed by the compliment.
“No, I’m not. I’m Hercules. You told me that yourself.” I laugh and push him away.
That night he puts his arm around me when we sit around the fire, and I scoff at the silly gesture in my mind to reassure my friends that I did. Underneath I feel all warm and fuzzy.
He holds my hand, and I know I’m reeling him in, even if my heart pitter-patters a bit whenever he does.
He kisses me, and I pretend not to notice that my toes curl a little each time he does.
I decide I really like camping.
11. Mr. Green in the Study with the Candlestick
Life back home with the cheerleader is not pleasant. She’s pretty upset about the whole Trevor thing. I think she’s under the impression that I made a move after she informed me of her intentions. I have no desire to enlighten her to the fact that Trevor and I had already a sort of arrangement.
Last year when I first came to stay with the Grants, the cheerleader had just left for college. She moved out the weekend before I moved in, so other than holidays, we haven’t had to live under the same roof. Probably not a good plan to aggravate her as we’re going to be spending the entire summer here, but then I’ve never been known to do what is best.
Third Saturdays have become a big part of the game. It makes Trevor happy that I willingly go with him each month to help. I would never admit it aloud, but I’ve come to realize that I really like the old geezers. Some I like better than others, mostly the ones who have been accepting of my presence all along, no matter how odd I look to them.
Mrs. Green has become one of my favorites, mainly because she steadfastly maintains that she was married to the infamous Mr. Green from the Clue game, and that he did it in the study with the candlestick. She can’t usually remember what she had for lunch or what some of her grandkids’ names are, but she always recalls her Clue story in perfect clarity with a glint in her eyes.
She and I are kindred spirits. She recognized it right away and has told me numerous stories of her wild teenage days. Funny because I just always imagined that when someone her age would’ve been my age, all teens would have been prim and proper. I don’t tell her much about me because I don’t want to dim our unlikely friendship even if she forgets things easily. She always remembers Trevor and me though, calling him my “young man.”
I’m sitting with her, crocheting of all things . She had told me once that she wants to teach her granddaughter, but her granddaughter never comes to see her. No one ever comes to see her. I don’t have a grandma, and since she seems to have been abandoned by her granddaughter, we have adopted one another. That’s why I sit and crochet.
“Are you being nice to your foster family?” She always asks me this question, every week.
“It was easier before their daughter came home, you know? She really doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her, so I’m having a hard time being nice.”
“She’s jealous.”
“What?” My hands still, and I look over at her.
“Well,” she pauses, turning the afghan over on her lap as she begins a new row, “you’ve taken her place as the youngest daughter.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a daughter. I’m just a foster kid.”
“They don’t treat you as part of the family?” She looks upset.
“Yeah, they do. I even have stupid chores. Doesn’t make me a daughter.”
“Ah, yes, chores. I complained about them to no end, resented having to do them, and resented my mother for giving them to me. That is, until I had my own home where every chore was mine. Then I wished I could go
“By the way, it’s been nice seeing your face all week.”
“You see my face every day,” I say, confused.
He touches my cheek. “I mean your real face, not hidden behind all of that make-up. You’re so beautiful.”
“You’re a dork, Trev,” I say, looking away, embarrassed by the compliment.
“No, I’m not. I’m Hercules. You told me that yourself.” I laugh and push him away.
That night he puts his arm around me when we sit around the fire, and I scoff at the silly gesture in my mind to reassure my friends that I did. Underneath I feel all warm and fuzzy.
He holds my hand, and I know I’m reeling him in, even if my heart pitter-patters a bit whenever he does.
He kisses me, and I pretend not to notice that my toes curl a little each time he does.
I decide I really like camping.
11. Mr. Green in the Study with the Candlestick
Life back home with the cheerleader is not pleasant. She’s pretty upset about the whole Trevor thing. I think she’s under the impression that I made a move after she informed me of her intentions. I have no desire to enlighten her to the fact that Trevor and I had already a sort of arrangement.
Last year when I first came to stay with the Grants, the cheerleader had just left for college. She moved out the weekend before I moved in, so other than holidays, we haven’t had to live under the same roof. Probably not a good plan to aggravate her as we’re going to be spending the entire summer here, but then I’ve never been known to do what is best.
Third Saturdays have become a big part of the game. It makes Trevor happy that I willingly go with him each month to help. I would never admit it aloud, but I’ve come to realize that I really like the old geezers. Some I like better than others, mostly the ones who have been accepting of my presence all along, no matter how odd I look to them.
Mrs. Green has become one of my favorites, mainly because she steadfastly maintains that she was married to the infamous Mr. Green from the Clue game, and that he did it in the study with the candlestick. She can’t usually remember what she had for lunch or what some of her grandkids’ names are, but she always recalls her Clue story in perfect clarity with a glint in her eyes.
She and I are kindred spirits. She recognized it right away and has told me numerous stories of her wild teenage days. Funny because I just always imagined that when someone her age would’ve been my age, all teens would have been prim and proper. I don’t tell her much about me because I don’t want to dim our unlikely friendship even if she forgets things easily. She always remembers Trevor and me though, calling him my “young man.”
I’m sitting with her, crocheting of all things . She had told me once that she wants to teach her granddaughter, but her granddaughter never comes to see her. No one ever comes to see her. I don’t have a grandma, and since she seems to have been abandoned by her granddaughter, we have adopted one another. That’s why I sit and crochet.
“Are you being nice to your foster family?” She always asks me this question, every week.
“It was easier before their daughter came home, you know? She really doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her, so I’m having a hard time being nice.”
“She’s jealous.”
“What?” My hands still, and I look over at her.
“Well,” she pauses, turning the afghan over on her lap as she begins a new row, “you’ve taken her place as the youngest daughter.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a daughter. I’m just a foster kid.”
“They don’t treat you as part of the family?” She looks upset.
“Yeah, they do. I even have stupid chores. Doesn’t make me a daughter.”
“Ah, yes, chores. I complained about them to no end, resented having to do them, and resented my mother for giving them to me. That is, until I had my own home where every chore was mine. Then I wished I could go
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