The Right Kind of Wrong by Jade Eby Page A

1943. From there he went to Sicily and then..." Her nose scrunches up all adorable-like. "Lord, I can hardly remember these details, Kara. All of his army papers are upstairs in the attic. I haven't been up there in years but you're welcome to go up and take a look for anything useful."
    Grandma yawns. "I think it's time for my afternoon nap. Kara, help me up?" Vince turns off the camera and hands me her walker. She shuffles through the front door.  
    I pick up my notebook and look over the questions I'd written down. We only touched on a few. So much for making progress on the project.
    "She's quite the storyteller." Vince sits beside me on the swing, his foot forcing the swing backward. We move back and forth rhythmically.
    "Yeah, she is," I say. "You know what's funny? I lived with them for almost my entire childhood and I've never heard the story she told us."
    "What, you think she's lying?"
    I wave him off. "No! Not at all. But aren't these the kind of stories grandparents are supposed to tell?"
    Vince looks at me with a blank expression and shrugs. "I dunno. I probably know less about my own parents than you know about your grandparents. I think it's just an age thing, you know?"
    I nod. "It's because we're too selfish. We don't think about asking about other people until it's too late."
    Vince holds my gaze and it feels like he's not looking at me, but through me. It’s like he wants to find out every little thing that goes on in my head. Maybe he wants to talk about what happened earlier.  
    I flirt between bringing it up and letting it go. I want to do both. Don't I always? We swing in silence. The birds and wind pick up our slack.  
    "Well, I'm gonna go nap or something. I'm not used to these early mornings." Vince gets up from the swing.  
    The weightlessness feels sudden. So lonely. He walks toward the door and I pinch myself. Do it, Kara . Do it now.  
    "Vince?"
    He stops. "Yeah?"
    "I know you know I overheard you talking to Grandma. Thanks. You know, for saying what you did."
    He gives me a sad smile and shrugs. "It's the truth. I didn't say anything she didn't already know."  
    Then he leaves me, my mouth open, stunned. Since when did Vince, the ruiner of my GPA, the prickly thorn in my side, become the person who seems to understand me the most?

    "Somehow, I don't think playing Spit and Solitare is on the list of things to do while we're here."  
    Vince leans back in his chair at the kitchen table where we are sitting with a deck of cards.  
    "I can't believe you grew up here. It's so boring."
    "Tell me about it," I mutter.  
    I glance toward the stairs. "We didn’t check the attic yet for my Grandpa's stuff. Let's go up there."
    Vince follows my eyes to the stairwell. "Up there?"  
    I pull him up from his chair. "Yeah. Think of it as an adventure."
    His face goes white. "An adventure the size of a crawl space."
    Oh, yeah. He's claustrophobic.  
    "The stairs are a little narrow. Once we get up there it opens up to a big room."
    He pushes me in front of him. "Let's get it over with."
    The steep attic stairs creak under my weight, and the bitter scent of mothballs grows stronger as I reach the top. Every step stirs up motes of dust, which shimmer in a ribbon of light streaming in from a tiny window. It casts an eerie glow over the cluttered room.  
    I grope around for the string to the light. "I can't find the light. I know it's up here somewhere."
    "Are you sure your Grandma's not hiding any dead bodies up here? It's creepy as hell."  
    "You never know with—" I emit what could accurately be described as a small scream.  
    "What happened?"
    “Something brushed my cheek.” I realize it's the string I've been looking for. I pull it and the attic comes to life with light. "It hit me in the face."
    Vince shakes his head. "A piece of string scares you? If only I'd known this earlier."
    I shove him lightly. "Shut up." I look around at all the boxes stacked to the ceiling. Awkwardly shaped garbage