Tipsy is sixteen and she’s in a foul mood, but that’s not unusual. Granna says it’s the hormones, but Tipsy thinks there’s more to it. Some of it is Martinville, which for the past two years has started to feel like one of those mousetraps with the glue inside. Like she’s stuck in this place until she either starves or chews off her foot to escape or someone puts her out of her misery. And now Granna is giving her hell because she caught Tipsy talking to the ghost that haunts their church.
“No one saw me, Granna!” Tipsy’s voice echoes through the kitchen. She’s perched on the edge of the Formica countertop, beside the microwave. She used to sit up here and help Granna cut apples for the Thanksgiving pies. Her skinny butt still fits. “He’s harmless, anyway.”
“I don’t care. I’ve been telling you about talking to that boy since you were as old as he looks.” Granna takes a drag off one of the cigarettes she’s always smoking, the ones Tipsy thinks are slowly killing her, but as Tipsy will find out in a year or so, are actually killing her pretty quickly. She’s cut her hair short. Tipsy doesn’t like it, because Granna has always had long hair, and when Tipsy was little she liked to brush it. Granna’s hair has been gray and sort of prickly Tipsy’s whole life, but Tipsy doesn’t have a sister and her Mama always wore her hair in a feathered bob. She only had Granna’s hair to brush. Maybe she’s too old for that now, but it still felt like Granna ripped up an album of family photos when she chopped off her hair.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish