The Cemetery Boys by Brewer Heather
Author:Brewer,Heather
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperTeen
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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A few things could be said for the way my grandmother’s house usually smelled, and none of them were very pleasant. But as I strolled up the driveway, hungry for dinner, smells that shouldn’t have been coming from her house definitely were. Delicious, nose-filling, Mexican-food smells that made me feel almost happy I was going inside. My dad’s Beetle was gone, so apparently, my grandmother could cook. Who knew?
At the stove, my grandmother was busy stirring something in a pot, her back to me. I cleared my throat to let her know I was in the room, and she bristled. Clearly, after two weeks in the same house, we still weren’t friends. “Smells good. Is that dinner? I love Mexican food.”
She didn’t respond, just kept stirring whatever was in the pot. Then, as if fully embracing her position as Evil Old Hag, she tapped her wooden spoon clean on the edge of the pot and set it on a spoon rest that was shaped like a goose looking over its shoulder. The spoon rested on the goose’s hindquarters—something that didn’t exactly instill my faith in tonight’s meal, whatever the smells. My grandmother turned to look at me, wiping her hands on her white-and-blue-checkered apron. There was an expression on her face I didn’t recognize. She looked almost . . . happy. “It’s your father’s favorite, too. I’ve been cooking this for him since he was two.”
I sat there stunned for a moment. Not only was it already the most pleasant conversation we’d engaged in to date, but also she’d told me something about my dad I hadn’t known. I always thought he preferred Italian, what with the way he used to drool over the very mention of my mom’s lasagna. Either my grandmother was wrong or my dad had been lying to one of them.
A memory curled up in the back of my mind, warm and safe and pleasant. My mom, standing in our kitchen in Denver. She was wearing that ugly flower-covered apron that she loved so much, moving boiled lasagna noodles from the strainer in the sink to the glass pan on the counter. My dad had come up behind her, slipping his hands over her hips. I’d walked into the room to ask a question, but as I turned to walk out again, to leave them alone in that couple-only moment, Dad had spoken softly into my mother’s ear. She’d giggled in such a normal way, and he’d said, “You know lasagna’s my favorite.”
I pushed the memory away and looked at my grandmother, missing the family I’d once had more than ever. It was a start, this conversation. It was something, at least.
My grandmother nodded, as if she was thinking the same thing. “Now go wash up. Dinner is in five minutes.”
I offered a hesitant smile in return and made my way down the hall toward the bathroom. As I walked, I caught a funky smell, and realized it was me. So I stepped into my bedroom to change my shirt and reapply some deodorant.
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