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Speaking of my crazy bitch of a boss… she’s been acting weird. Weirder than usual, that is.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s been great about taking me back. She told me she’ll ignore for now the fact I still don’t have a GED since I’m working toward it, and she even wants to set up an exhibition of my comic drawings, since Candy told her about them.
Which is super cool, although my stomach turns into a giant knot whenever I think about putting my work out there for people to see and comment and judge.
Okay, so maybe she’s not that much of a bitch after all.
So as I was saying, my boss.
Donna.
It’s Monday, and I’m at the bookstore, working, when she walks out of her office to stand in front of me, hands on her hips.
I glance up. I’m kneeling on the floor, bent over a cardboard box, sorting through a new shipment of books. Work has increased since Candy went back to classes. She still comes around in the afternoons for a couple of hours, but Donna hasn’t hired a replacement for her yet and I’m still learning the ropes, so it’s kinda overwhelming at times. And tiring.
But I’m happy working here, so I suck it up and remind myself how lucky I am. For this job, for surviving the death of my mom, and the stabbing in the back alley, for finding two people who love me, even though Joel has been wound up tighter than a spring lately. Especially today, as he’s been waiting for a phone call about a job interview.
I try not to think of my dad, which is kinda hypocritical when you think I keep harping on how Joel should face his parents, but come on. My dad is a convicted murderer who’s been after my own hide—and I have to face him in court sooner or later.
So not looking forward to that, lemme tell you.
“Jethro.” Donna leans forward, frowning. “Have you listened to a word I said?”
Um. I wipe my dusty hands on my black pa
nts and blink up at her. “Yeah?”
“I said, will you be all right on your own if I leave an hour earlier?”
“Sure. Candy will be here by then. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good.”
I get to my feet, my knees creaking alarmingly. “Going someplace nice?”
“What? Why are you asking?” Her cheeks turn crimson, matching her wild curls, and her freckles stand out. She’s pretty for a thirty-year-old with the personality of a sumo wrestler and the temper of a mad Chihuahua.
Not that I’d ever tell her that.
I nod at her dress instead. “You’re all dressed up.”
“This old thing?” She gives a high-pitch laugh that hurts my ears, and strokes her neck. “I just happened to throw it on this morning.”
Right. This “old thing” is a short black dress that shows off her long legs and has a cleavage plunging so low it almost hits her bellybutton.
Okay, I exaggerate. I can’t see her bellybutton. I think.
“And who’s the lucky guy?”
She sputters. “Jet. What’s gotten into you?”
Sometimes I suspect she’s younger than thirty.
And sometimes, like now, I think she might be a spry eighty. “Come on, Donna. Fess up.”
“Honestly…” She glares, and I worry for a moment I’ve overstepped my boundaries.
After all, she only just gave me my job back, and I’m here thanks to her goodwill, but I thought she was an open-minded person—for a spry eighty-year-old.
