Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
We both are. I love working in here with her.
When she first made me start helping her, I thought I would hate it, but I actually really like doing it.
Because of the extreme heat involved in glassblowing, Gran won’t let me do any work on my own, so my job is to do the blowing while Gran shapes. But the idea for the pieces come from me, and Gran helps me bring those to life. I sketch out what I want to make and show her the picture. I do enjoy the drawing. But creating it is the fun part. Glassblowing requires focus, meaning there’s no time to think about how much I miss Mama or the reason she’s in prison or how much I hate school and my life in general.
“I’ll get the door,” I tell Gran.
I carefully set down the glass balloon and grinding block on the workbench. I leave the workshop and head into the house.
As I move through the living room, I can see who is standing at the front door through the frosted glass window, and my pace falters.
A police officer.
My heart starts to race in my chest. Palms going clammy.
I curl my fingers into my hands and press my nails into my palms. The bite of pain helps a little.
The bell rings again.
The officer can see me through the glass, so there’s no hiding.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself, and open the door.
“H-hello.” My voice trembles. I hate that.
I force some spine into my back.
“River.”
He knows me. I don’t know him.
But then everyone knows who I am.
The child of the cop killer.
If only they knew the truth.
I wonder if he worked with my stepfather. If he was a friend of his.
Everyone was my stepfather’s friend.
And that’s because they didn’t know the real him.
The officer’s eyes regard me with distaste.
Like everyone’s does in this godforsaken town.
I sometimes wish we could move away. But Gran won’t leave. She’s lived her whole life in this town. She was born in this house. Says she’ll die here.
And she says we don’t run from our problems. We face them.
But, if I could run, I would. Far, far away.
But I can’t. So, here I stand.
I dig my feet into my sneakers, trying to ground myself. My hand trembles around the door that I’m holding on to.
“Is your grandmother home?” he asks.
I nod, pulse hammering in my suddenly dry throat.
“Well, can you go get her?”
I nod again. But I can’t seem to move. I can’t get my feet off the floor or my hand away from the door.
He frowns, lines drawn all over his face, and he steps forward, boots thudding against the wooden porch.
Boots thudding up the steps. He’s home.
He leans down into my face. “Fuck is wrong with you, boy? You retarded or somethin’?”
Boy.
“You will do as I tell you, boy.”
“No, he’s not retarded.” The whip-crack sound of my gran’s voice is like a life raft from a nightmare. Her soft but strong hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and I relax a little. “And you might be the law in these parts, but don’t ever talk to my grandson that way again.”
The officer stares her down.
My gran might be small—I’m already taller than she is—but she’s fierce.
She lifts her chin and stares right back at him.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “I’m just here to deliver a message.”
“Which is?” Gran says.
A smile passes over his face. And it’s not a kind smile. He reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out an official-looking envelope, but he doesn’t hand it over. Instead, he begins speaking in a cold, calm voice, “Last night, there was a riot at the prison where your daughter was incarcerated. She was stabbed with a shank by another prisoner. She didn’t make it. She’s dead.”
She’s dead.
Dead.
No.
Gran’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. The only sign that she heard what he just said.
He holds out the envelope to Gran. She takes it from him.
“Someone will be in touch about the body.”
The body.
Then, he turns and walks away.
Dead.
Stabbed.
Body.
Mama.
No.
I hear someone screaming.
I don’t realize it’s me until Gran is pulling me into her arms, tightly holding me to her.
“No. No!” I push away from her, stumbling backward.
“River—”
“No! She’s not … she’s not … no!”
I turn and run through the house.
She can’t be dead. She can’t be.
No.
I’m back in the workshop.
The glass balloon is sitting where I left it.
She won’t ever see it because she’s dead.
She’s dead because of me. Because of what I did.
I pick the balloon up and hurl it at the shelf where all the things I made her sit.
It hits the shelf with a resounding smash, all the other glass items smashing.
But it’s not enough. The pain is still there in my chest. And it hurts.
I pick up one of the metal pipes we use for glassblowing, and I start to swing out, hitting anything I can.