𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟏] 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐎 𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐘

CHAPTER ONE ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ THE FLAMINGO ORGY!

"GRANDPA'S FLIPPING OUT."

     "Well, did he take his pills today?"

     "He won't tell me," said Jacob over the phone. "Doesn't sound like it, though."

     I sighed. "So you're calling me... to stop by his house and make sure he's okay?"

     "Please?" he asked. "I cant get off of work right now."

     I laughed through the phone. "I'm not going to Grandpa's alone, so find a way. I'll be there in 10."

    Years ago, when Mom and Dad first brought up the idea of putting Grandpa in a home, Jacob and I resented it. We knew we could handle him even despite the crazy paranoia he went through.

     When we asked our dad why Grandpa was so crazy about guns, he said it sometimes happened to people who used to be soldiers who had experienced traumatic things. I guess that after everything my grandfather had been through, he never really felt safe anywhere, not even at home.

     The irony was, now that delusions and paranoia were starting to get the best of him, it was true—he wasn't safe at home, not with all those guns around.

     10 minutes later, I arrived at Smart Aid, where Jacob worked. He been trying to get fired every single day, but we both knew he'd never be so lucky. He had been trying to get fired from Smart Aid all summer, and it had proved next to impossible.

     He came in late, repeatedly and with the flimsiest of excuses; made shockingly incorrect change; even misshelved things on purpose, stocking lotions among laxatives and birth control with baby shampoo. Rarely had he worked so hard at anything, and yet no matter how incompetent he pretended to be, his manager stubbornly kept him on payroll.

     Let me reword that. It was next to impossible for him to get fired from Smart Aid. Any other employee would've been out the door a dozen minor infractions ago. There are three Smart Aids in Englewood, the small, somnolent beach town where we live. There are 27 in Sarasota County, and 115 all of Florida, spreading across the state like some untreatable rash.

     The reason he couldn't be fired was that our uncles owned every single one of them. The reason he couldn't quit was that working at Smart Aid as your first job had to be a hollowed family tradition.

     But alas, here was Jacob Portman, opening the passengers seat of my car. "Let's go," he said, throwing himself down onto the red leather seat.

     "Wow, not even a hello to your favorite sister," I laughed, my hands on the wheel, ready to pull out of the parking lot at any moment.

     Jake looked over to me, not amused. "You're my only sister."

     I put the car out of park and into drive with a grin. "Even better."

     The engine rattled to life in a cloud of blue smoke. As we left the parking lot and rolled pest strip malls towards Grandpa Portman's house, I began to worry about what we might find when we got there. Worst case scenarios included my grandfather running naked in the street, wielding a hunting rifle, foaming at the mouth on the front lawn, or lying in wait with the blunt object and hand. Anything was possible.

     The sky was turning the color of a fresh bruise as we pulled into my grandfather subdivision, a bewildering labyrinth of interlocking cul-de-sac known collectively at Circle Village. We stopped at the guard gate to announce ourselves, but the old man in the booth was snoring and the gate was open, as was often the case, so we just drove in.