The Boss Project by Vi Keeland

A little while later, I rode my bike to the market, all of three blocks away, and picked up sugar and peanut butter. But while I was in the store, the drizzle turned to a full-on downpour. I lifted my bike from under the awning. “Great.”

By the time I made it back to my grandmother’s, I was drenched from head to toe. I pressed the button to open the garage door, but as I did, a flash of long, blond hair streaked across Grams’s friend’s yard next door. I watched through the downpour as a girl slid across the wet grass and raced up the ladder to the treehouse in the back. On the fourth rung, she slipped and lost her grip, and landed flat on her ass on the ground. But she got right back up, looked over her shoulder toward the house, and began climbing again. The second time she made it almost to the top before her foot slipped. Somehow she kicked the ladder out from under her while trying to grab it with her legs. I thought she was going down with it, but she grabbed the treehouse and now dangled from it.

“Shit.”

I raced over to Milly’s yard. Rain pelted me in the face as I hurdled the little white picket fence and lifted the ladder from the grass, hoisting it back up next to the girl. She hooked her legs around it and managed to get herself back on. As soon as she was steady enough to climb again, she bolted up the last few rungs and into the treehouse, slamming the door behind her.

I waited a minute, but she didn’t come out again. And since the rain was definitely not letting up, I ran back to my grandmother’s. When I reached the garage, I heard a man yelling from inside Milly’s house. I figured the girl had probably done something wrong and gotten in trouble, so I put my bike back in the garage and minded my own business.

Inside, Grams took one look at me and shook her head. “Boy, you look like a drowned rat. What the heck are you doing playing out in that rain?”

I unzipped my sweatshirt and took out the bag I’d tucked inside to keep dry. “I went to get you the sugar you asked for.”

“You mean your sister’s sugar. She’s the one who wanted it to make rock candy.”

I freaking knew it. I shook my head. “She told me you wanted it.”

Grams chuckled. “Sounds about right. I’m one of eight, and shit flows downhill. I probably would’ve done the same thing to my little brother when we were your age.” Her phone started to ring, so she walked toward where it hung on the wall, motioning to my clothes. “Go get changed, and I’ll make you a snack.”

I was so soaked, I even had to change my damn underwear.

When I came back out, Grams was hanging up the phone. She pulled her raincoat from the coat closet and grabbed her car keys from the key holder that hung near the front door. “I have to run out. You and your sister be good.”

“It’s pouring. Where are you going?”

Grams shook her head. “To help a friend. I’ll explain when I get home.”

“Okay.”

After she left, I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When I put the dirty butter knife in the sink, I looked out the window and noticed my grandmother’s hot rod in the neighbor’s driveway. A woman was getting in the passenger side. Grams’s friend Milly walked around the side of the house with her arm wrapped around the girl who’d almost fallen from the treehouse a little while ago. I watched as they all piled in, and then Grams took off, flying down the road.

It was hours later when she came back, and I was half asleep on the couch, watching a poker tournament on TV. She walked over and grabbed the remote, flicking it off.

I sat up. “Is everything alright?”

She sighed. “It is now—for the time being anyway.”

“Did something happen to Milly next door? I saw her getting in your car with some other people.”

“No, Milly’s fine.”

“Oh. When I came back from the store earlier, a girl ran out from Milly’s. She almost cracked her head open climbing into the treehouse in the back when the ladder slipped out from under her.”

“That must’ve been Milly’s youngest granddaughter, Everly.”

“I heard a man yelling, too.”

Grams frowned. “That was her father. He’s a bad man, honey. But he won’t be coming around anymore, at least for a while.”

“Is the girl okay?”

Grams nodded and patted my hand. “She will be.”

I nodded.

“Come on. You’ve been watching that boob tube long enough. I want to show you something I’ve been working on.”

I followed Grams to the kitchen where she unrolled a piece of oak tag paper. Inside were probably a hundred rectangles, all connected with various lines.

“What is that?”

“It’s our family tree. I thought it would be nice to map out our ancestors.”

I shrugged. “For what?”

“To know where we came from, silly. What do you mean, for what?”

She pointed to the top of the chart. “This here would be your great, great, great, great grandfather, Merchant Harrington. He was a tailor.” She lowered her finger down the chart. “He made his daughter’s wedding dress, which was worn by two more generations. I have a picture of it on my computer. Maybe you’ll wind up being a tailor, too.”

I snort-laughed. “Definitely not.”

“Why not?”