Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (android based ebook reader TXT) 📗

“Is something wrong?” I glance in the visor mirror, smoothing down my barely dry ponytail and applying a coat of lip gloss.

She turns to give me a tentative smile. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just not sure what to expect, is all.”

“Do we have time to go through the drive-thru?” The golden arches loom in the distance, and my stomach feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. I didn’t have time to reheat any leftover casserole at home, and lunch feels like it was an eternity ago.

Mom eyes the clock on the dash. “I guess we’ve got a couple extra minutes.” She puts on her blinker and turns into the McDonald’s parking lot.

“I’ll take a large fry and a Coke.”

“Alrighty.” We pull up to the menu board, and Mom places the order for me.

The fries are nice and hot, but not hot enough to keep me from scarfing them down. Mom pulls back out onto the street, and I yank a fry out of my mouth to yell out as we bump onto the center median. The Jeep bounces wildly, knocking my head from side to side, but Mom maintains control and merges into the lane like she’d meant to do that all along.

“What are you doing?” I turn to give her an incredulous look. “There’s no left turn there. You have to go up to the light.”

Mom grips the steering wheel, her mouth pinching around the edges. “I forgot.”

A cool, wet feeling spreads across my chest, and I look down to see a large splotch of Coke all over the front of my white button-down shirt. “Mom!” I yell. “Look at me! I can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

She glances my way briefly before peering back at the street in front of her. “Sorry, but we don’t have time to stop anywhere else.”

Something is definitely going on. It’s not like her to drive like this or to make me go somewhere looking like a slob. I groan. “I’ll just wait in the Jeep, then. I doubt you need me anyway.”

“Actually, we do. This involves you, too.”

“See, I knew it. I am getting the bug collections.”

She doesn’t smile at my poor attempt at humor. Instead, she grows unusually quiet again. My suspicion continues to deepen, but apparently I’ll just have to wait until we get there to find out what the deal is.

We pull into another parking lot with a row of modern, two-story office buildings, and Mom parks in front of one with a sign that reads Sisco and Browning, Attorneys at Law. The Coke stain on my chest has grown to the size of a grapefruit now, and the liquid has soaked into one side of my bra. Disgusting. I pinch the fabric, pulling it away from my skin, but there’s really no way to escape without taking my clothes off. “This is going to be totally embarrassing. Don’t you have a scarf or something I can use to cover it up?”

Mom lets out a snort. “Yeah, Becka. I keep all my spare scarves in the back of the Jeep. Let me grab one for you.”

“Hey. It’s not my fault you decided to drive like a wild woman on the way here.”

She gives me her infamous “Mom” look. The one that says I better shut my mouth if I know what’s good for me. So, with my arms crossed tight over my chest and head hanging, I follow her inside.

The office is small, with stark white walls and absolutely no decor. The smell of tobacco lingers in the air, and it’s about ten degrees too cold in here. A receptionist who appears a few years past retirement age directs us to Mr. Sisco’s office—the last one on the left—and goosebumps have cropped up on my skin by the time we step into the room. The fact that the front of my shirt is soaking wet isn’t helping matters.

“Hello,” a round-faced man says from behind a sturdy-looking table. He offers a faint smile as he extends a hand outward, ushering us into the seats across from him. He has a receding hairline and glasses and looks pretty much the way I expected a lawyer to look. Smart, but stuffy.

“Hi, Mr. Sisco,” Mom says. Her eyes dart back toward the open doorway, like she’s expecting someone else to come in.

“So how are you two ladies doing this afternoon?” he asks as we settle into our oversized, cushy office chairs.

“Fine, thank you,” Mom says.

“I’m just a little chilly,” I add, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

“Oh, sorry about that.” He rises to his feet and moves to the doorway. “Constance,” he calls down the hallway. “Could you turn the temperature up some?”

“Sure thing,” she replies.

Thank goodness.

Mr. Sisco returns to his seat and glances at his watch. “We’ll wait a few more minutes to get started. Hopefully, they’ll be here by then.”

“Who?” I ask. Would there be more lawyers coming? I can’t imagine this will be too involved, but then again, what do I know about lawyers and wills and such?

Mom gives me a rushed, sidelong glance and then smiles nervously back at the lawyer, who still hasn’t answered my question. Then, from down the hallway, I hear the front door open, followed by the murmur of voices. One of them is faintly familiar, and my eyes widen. Oh no. Is that who I think it is?

I turn toward Mom, but she refuses to look my way. She still has that weird, nervous smile plastered on her face. Mr. Sisco clicks the pen on the yellow notepad in front of him. Next to it sits a large maroon folder. Grandpa’s will, no doubt. My arms constrict tighter across my chest as footsteps continue to thump in our direction. I suck in a breath and risk a glance back toward the doorway.

“Hi there,” my Aunt Jackie says, wearing pink lipstick much too bright for this occasion—or any other occasion, for that matter. Hands pushed into the pockets of her tattered