One Last Thing ✅

thirteen things

Grams is sitting on the couch, fingers laced together, knuckles white.

Shit.

Mrs. Edwards must have called.

I knew I was getting off too easy.

As I begin to formulate my explanation, though, Grams does something strange. She rises and walks across the room to meet me. I watch, almost hypnotically, as she raises her arms and wraps them awkwardly around my shoulders in an almost-hug. I feel myself stiffen and then relax. The smell of her perfume is in my nose, but I don't mind it. In this moment, it is comforting.

Confusion swallows me as I struggle to figure out what's going on. The last time Grams really hugged me was at my grandfather's funeral, and that was a weird, almost painful sort of squeeze, like she was trying to steal the life from me so she could give it back to her husband.

This is not the reaction of a woman who has just gotten a phone call from her granddaughter's teacher about cheating, especially the day after she gave me a hard time about it.

I open my mouth. Only a little squeak comes out. "What's going on?"

Grams drops her arms to her side and nods toward the couch. "You'd better sit down."

Nervously, I drift over to the faded blue couch and take a seat. Before Grams joins me, she makes a detour to pick up an open letter that I didn't notice lying on the dining room table.

The stationery is blue.

It makes me want to vomit.

I stare at the floor as Grams sits next to me and begins to read aloud: "Dear Frances Crane, we are writing to alert you to the status of your daughter, Amy Crane, who will be released from our institution in six months. If you have any questions..."

I lose focus as Grams continues to read the letter.

...released from our institution...

...six months...

I feel as though I'm sitting on a movie set, like everything is made out of cardboard and if I punch the ottoman sitting a few feet away from me, my fist would go right through in a cloud of dust. Grams is merely an actress in this drama, working toward her Emmy, milking the scene for all its worth. The worst part is I feel like I've forgotten my lines.

I don't know what comes next.

I'm not prepared.

Not for this.

Amy Crane.

The name conjures a vague face, a pale woman with long, white-blond hair, smiling for the camera and showing her pearly white teeth. It's only in my imagination that they're dripping with blood, only in my dreams that her features melt into those of a demon-lady, sneering, coming for me.

"Lil? Did you hear what I just said?"

My grandmother's voice chases away the monster, and I turn to face her. She has folded the letter and returned it neatly to its envelope. Her blue eyes, so like mine, so like my mother's, study me carefully.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I asked whether you knew anything about this. Did she mention it to you in your last letter?"

My mind goes to the box of letters stashed away in my closet. I've never opened one, not a single envelope, over the years. There must be over a hundred of them there, a one-sided conversation that I somehow thought I could erase if I never acknowledged it. Every time I put another letter in that box, it's me sticking my fingers in my ears and humming: Mmmmhhmmmmmmhmmmm I can't hear you.

But I've only been fooling myself.

"No," I tell Grams. "She didn't say anything."

The lie comes easily.

They do after a while.

Grams taps the envelope against her thigh. "I don't know where we're going to put her," she says worriedly. "I suppose there's her old bedroom. I'll have to clear out my craft supplies."

I stare at her in horror. "She's going to... live here?"

"Well, I don't know where else," Grams replies. "At least until she gets on her feet. She won't have any money. She'll need to find a job." The way her eyes roll up toward the ceiling makes it clear that she's begun talking to herself, thinking of all the things she'll have to do in preparation for her daughter's homecoming.

I don't know how to respond to this news, that the woman who once tried to kill me will be living within these walls, sleeping in the room right below me. There's no way. Just no way. I'll have to figure something out. Maybe Riley's parents will let me stay with them until graduation, until I can find a job that will pay me enough money to get a place of my own.

Stop. Just stop thinking.

I glance at the clock in the corner of the room. It's almost five, and Jared will be coming to pick me up soon. "Grams, my thing starts in a couple of hours." I try to make my voice normal, disguise the fact that I'm finding it hard to breathe.

"Your thing?" she asks absentmindedly.

One deep breath. Two. "At House of Rock. We're supposed to be there at six."

Grams nods. "Okay. Be home by midnight."

"I'm spending the night at Riley's, remember?"

"Oh, yes," she says, but she doesn't look like she remembers at all.

I leave her sitting on the couch, staring into space.

In my room, I go to the closet and stand there for a moment, catching my breath. I stare at my clothes, unable to keep my eyes from sliding down to the pile of sweaters. I know what is underneath. I grab a silky tank top before firmly closing the door. Quickly, I get dressed and then stand before my mirror. It's my typical outfit for a Sea Monkey gig—ripped jeans, leather jacket, chunky black combat boots.

I grab a fat black eyeliner pencil from my desk and use it to outline my eyes, but I can't concentrate. I feel like it's Amy staring back at me, triumph in her eyes.

You always knew I'd be back, didn't you?

I rub my temples.

Shut up shut up shut up shutupshutupshutupshutup!!!

"Lil?" Grams raps on the door with her knuckle and then pokes her head into my room. "Jared is here." She doesn't look entirely thrilled about this fact, but on the other hand, she's probably relieved I'm leaving the house for the night so she can start rearranging the craft room... even though Amy won't be here for another six months.

Six months until my mother is back. The woman who tried to kill me.

Mom.