They said I was a freak.

“They were pretty tanked, so not much coherent conversation was going on. But they went gaga for the margarita slushies.” I scrubbed the grill.

“Wow. Totally riveting.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you think Tess and West are hooking up?”

“Probably. They’ll make a corny couple, though. Their names rhyme, for crying out loud.”

“Couple? Tess can dream on. West only does one-night stands. That’s a known fact.”

I offered a shrug. Karlie gave me an exasperated shove.

“God, you’re the worst gossip ever. I don’t even know why I bother. Last question: therapeutically-speaking, would you rather internet-stalk all the people in Michael Jackson’s ‘Black or White’ video and freak out about how old they are today, or give Barbie a Joe Exotic mullet?”

“The latter,” I mustered with a tired smirk, realizing how much I was going to miss her once she found a new employee to take most of her shifts. “I’d give Barbie a mullet, then dress her up as a cowgirl, put her in her Glam Convertible, and TikTok a video of her singin’ Bratz Dolls Ate My Pet.”

Karlie threw her head back and laughed. I peeked in her pocket mirror, which was sitting on the windowsill, checking my makeup.

The scar was mostly hidden.

I let out a relieved sigh.

The crunchy taco survives another day. Cracked, but not broken.

I got home at eleven. Grams was sitting at the kitchen table in her tattered calico housedress, the radio beside her playing Willie Nelson on full blast.

Grandma Savvy had always been an eccentric woman. She was the lady who went ham with her costumes each Halloween to welcome the trick-or-treaters. Who painted funny—often inappropriate—figures on the plant pots in her front yard, and danced at weddings like no one was watching, and cried watching Super Bowl commercials.

Grandmomma had always been quirky, but recently, she was confused, too.

Too confused to be left alone for longer than the ten-minute overlap between the time her caregiver Marla went home and I pulled into our garage.

I was three when my mom, Courtney Shaw, overdosed. She was lying on a bench in downtown Sheridan. A schoolboy found her. He tried to poke her with a branch. When she didn’t wake up, he freaked out and screamed bloody murder, attracting half the school kids in our town and a few of their parents.

Word spread, pictures were taken, and the Shaws had officially become Sheridan’s black sheep. By then, Grams was the only mother I knew. Courtney played a game of revolving doors with an array of tweaker boyfriends. One of them was my father, I assumed, but I’d never met him.

Grams never asked who my father was. She was probably wary of opening that can of worms and going through a custody battle with Lord-knows-who. The chances of my father being a respectable hard worker or a Sunday service attendee weren’t exactly high.

Grams raised me like her own daughter. It was only fair now that she was not fully independent, I stuck around and took care of her. Besides, it wasn’t like the job offers were pouring in from Hollywood and I was missing out on some huge career.

Reign De La Salle was mean, but he wasn’t wrong. With a face like mine, the only roles I could snag were that of a monster.

I entered the kitchen, dropping a kiss on Grams’ cloud of white, candyfloss hair. She caught my arm and pulled me down for a hug. I let out a grateful sigh.

“Hi, Grams.”

“Gracie-Mae. I made some pie.”

She braced the table, pulling herself up with a groan. Grams remembered my name. Always a good sign, and probably why Marla let her stay here by herself before I arrived.

Our house was a seventies graveyard, consisting of all the interior design atrocities you could find in that era: green tile countertops, wood paneling, rattan everything, and electronics that still weighed about the same as a family car.

Even after we redid big chunks of our ranch-style after the fire, Grams went to a Salvation Army thrift store and bought the oldest, most mismatched furniture she could find. It was like she was allergic to good taste, but as with all quirks, when they belonged to someone you loved, you learned how to find the beauty in them.

“I’m not really hungry,” I lied.

“It’s a new recipe. I found it in one of them magazines they have at the dentist’s office. Marla came down with something, bless her heart. Couldn’t even taste the dang thing. She wanted to try it so bad.”

I sat obediently at the table as she slid a plate with a slice of cherry pie and a fork in my direction. She patted the back of my hand on the table.

“Now, don’t be shy, Courtney. Not with your momma. Eat.”

Courtney.

Well, that didn’t last long. Grams called me Courtney frequently. The first few times after it happened, I took her to get some tests done, see what caused her forgetfulness. The doctor said it wasn’t Alzheimer’s, but to come again next year if things got worse.

That was two years ago. She hadn’t agreed to go back since.

I shoveled a chunk of the cherry pie into my mouth. As soon as the pie hit the back of my throat, it clogged up and shot a message to my brain:

Abort mission.

She’d done it again.

Mistaken salt for sugar. Prunes for cherries. And—who knows?—maybe rat poison for flour, too.

“Fine as cream gravy, huh?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. I nodded, reaching for the glass of water next to my plate, chugging it down in one go. I glanced at my phone on the table. It flashed with a message.

Marla: Fair warning: Your gram’s pie is particularly bad today.

My eyes watered.

“I knew you’d like it. Cherry pie is your favorite.”

It wasn’t. It was Courtney’s, but I didn’t have the heart to correct her.

I swallowed every bite without tasting it, down to the last crumb, pushing through the discomfort. Then I played a board game with her, answering questions about people I didn’t know who Courtney had been associated with, tucked Grams to bed, and kissed her goodnight. She held my wrist before I got up to leave, her eyes like fireflies dancing in the dark.

“Courtney. You sweet child of mine.”

The only person who loved me thought I was someone else.

Grace

The next morning, I arrived at the food truck early to prep ahead of opening hour. Sheridan’s Farmers’ Market was open on Saturdays, which meant more competition, more food trucks, more human interaction and its byproduct—more war paint. I put so much makeup on my face on Saturdays, I gave party clowns a run for their money.