Born Wicked

XXXI

I can hear her rummaging through the kitchen. I've buried my head beneath the pillow, but it doesn't help. I peek out into the daylight, it's bright and golden, the sun having returned. I groan and haul myself out of bed. It's Sunday, Gran's back from church getting her lunch ready, I'm sure.

She lets me sleep in on Sundays, which is awesome. We have an understanding, I haven't been inside the church since my parents' funeral.

Ethan took me out to dinner. We talked and laughed and I came home floating on clouds eight, nine, and ten. Now, after twelve in the afternoon, I need to get ready. I have a book to decode. I shower quickly and wrap my hair into a haphazard bun. Donning a pink hoodie and grey yoga pants, I throw on some cross trainers and head downstairs.

"Hey, Gran," I say in a rush, grabbing an apple and banana from the ceramic bowl on the table.

"You're not having lunch?" she asks, assembling a sub sandwich.

I shake my head, biting into the granny smith. The tart juice explodes across my taste buds. Yum. "I've gotta run," I say, kissing her weathered cheek. "I have some studying to do. I'll be back later, I'll call if I won't make dinner."

Her fair brows knit together in a frown. "Where are you going?"

"Library," I lie without pause. There's no way I can tell her I'm going over to the school librarian's house. "We have a huge project on the Constitution."

"Oh, okay," she replies. "Well, do your best to be home for dinner."

"I will," I call from the foyer. I grab my back pack with the big, blue leather book weighing it down like a ton of bricks.

Sycamore is closer to the Sound, I'll be in Ethan's neighborhood, past the school. It'll take me a while to get there on foot, but I didn't want to ask him for a ride. Same issue, I can't explain why I'm going to the librarian's home. At least the sun's out.

Georgia's house is a small, faded yellow clapboard not unlike where Ethan lives with his dad. The front lawn is neatly trimmed, the grass starting to yellow like everyone else's. There's a full garden under the bay window of what must be the living room. The curtains are drawn. There's a small Tracker in the driveway. I knock on the heavy wood door.

It opens without a sound and Georgia invites me in. She looks as young as I am in sweat pants and a tank top, her short hair mussed. She peers around me quickly before shutting the door.

"Hey," I greet her shyly.

She grins. "Hi, Jayme. Don't be a stranger, c'mon in and have a seat."

Her living room is cluttered with everything and there's no discernable pattern to the chaos. Herbs in pots line the window sill. Books sit on every available surface, including stacks on the floor. There are clothes, shoes and papers littering the couch and floor, reminiscent of the carnage left in the wake of a hurricane.

I hesitate. "Uh, sit where?"

She laughs and leads the way into the disaster. Shoving a pile of junk onto the floor she clears enough space on the couch cushions for her and I to sit.

"You want a Coke or something?" She asks, still standing.

I nod. "Sure."

She disappears into the kitchen and I hear her pull open the fridge. Seconds later, I have a cold can of soda in my hand, the condensation making my palm slick.

"You brought the book?" she asks, sitting next to me.

I shoulder my bag to the floor and dig through it, removing the heavy tome. I rest the can of Coke on the edge of her coffee table, and place the book on my knees.