she said. “You got a minute?”She didn’t sound too happy. In fact, I’d say she sounded right miserable. I strained to see more than the glow of her ciggie but was hypnotized by the red burn.Blinking, I said, “What’s wrong?” I slid onto the rattan chair, my behind almost not making it. My chlorine-smelling swimsuit made my shorts and T-shirt wet. I let out a sigh. Since turning fifteen, I’ve found myself sighing an awful lot. That’s my family’s fault.I helped myself to one of the biscuits from breakfast, the pan covered with a cloth so they wouldn’t dry out hard as rocks. It was like biting into a brick. The cloth hadn’t helped at all. I sighed again. Then let out an “I’m starving.”“Stop that damn sighing,” Nanny said. “You’re breathing up way more than your fair share of oxygen.” She drew long on her cigarette. Her face lit up in such a way she looked like a demon, shadowed eyes and all. But who’s allowed to tell their grandmother that kind of thing?
