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The Rest of Us Just Live Here Page 54
Author: Patrick Ness

“More cops?” I shrug from the chair next to Grandma’s bed. “More deer? I don’t know.”

“I wonder if we ever will.”

“And if we do, I wonder if we’ll regret it.”

Our grandma leans against Mel’s brush with her eyes closed, like Mary Magdalene when you scratch her between the ears. Mel’s the only person she’ll let do this. She never speaks while the brushing’s happening, never mentions it when it’s over, much less thanks her, but she’ll sit still the whole time, enjoying it, quiet as a cat.

“No one died, though,” I say. Mel shushes me and crooks her head to Mrs Richardson’s empty bed.

Someone did die. No idea how or when, but it must have been really recent, because they don’t keep the beds empty here for long. Mrs Choi is still in the bed by the window. She must be sad for Mrs Richardson, because she barely waved when we came in. I lower my voice. “But that could just be because we’re not indie kids. Or maybe it was just luck–”

“Do you really think Nathan has anything to do with it?” Mel asks. “Because I don’t. And I think I’m a pretty good judge of people.”

I sigh out through my nose. “Probably not.”

“How much of this is jealousy?”

“Probably all of it.”

Mel takes a final swipe with the brush. “You want me to plait it, Grandma?” Grandma says nothing, her head still back, her eyes still closed. Mel starts plaiting.

“So,” she says, innocent in a way that I know something’s coming. “You’re going to start seeing someone?”

“Mom told you.”

“Only to ask if I wanted to see someone, too. It was actually surprisingly supportive.”

“I know. She’s been different lately.”

“I’ll bet she feels like she’s graduating, just like us, so she’s finally noticing that the majority of her kids are leaving.”

“Isn’t it funny how we’re not even pretending Mr Shurin has a chance?”

“He doesn’t.” Mel folds up one large plait, isn’t happy with it, starts over. “Dr Luther again?”

Dr Luther was the psychiatrist I saw before, way back when. Mel saw her, too, and for those few times we went as a whole family, it was Dr Luther who tried to figure us out. This should be the place where I make fun of her, where I put her in my past as a goofy hippie-chick; a lonely lady, soft as a wild herb, looking at us poor, wounded kids with the eyes of a fawn.

Except she wasn’t. She gave off this air of, like, total competence. Like you didn’t have to worry she didn’t understand you or that she didn’t know what she was doing. Any idea how much of a relief that is?

“I think so,” I say. “Time is short, and it’s better than having to start from scratch.”

“Time is short,” Mel repeats. “It is, isn’t it?”

It is. The Bolts of Fire concert is tomorrow. The prom is next week, then we graduate. Time is short.

Mel folds our grandma’s hair between her hands in a twist I couldn’t even begin to replicate.

“Could you hand me that?” Mel nods at a bottle of old-fashioned anti-tangle cream my grandma used to like. I hand it to her. She squirts a bunch into her hand and massages it into Grandma’s hair, filling the room with a really nice coconut smell.

Grandma suddenly laughs, the smell triggering something.

“What’s funny, Grandma?” Mel says, smiling.

But our grandma just smiles back at her and then at me. “You remember the islands, Phillip?”

“Which islands?” I say. She doesn’t answer, just closes her eyes, still smiling. “Was Grandma ever on islands?” I ask Mel.

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