I clench my teeth again and turn to face my grandmother. “She should’ve aborted it, but I guess it’s against their religion.” “Heard Rachel Berkovich got knocked up,” Nana remarks. Besides, our carport is behind the house. There are usually street punks congregating on the stoops of the narrow townhouses on our less than affluent street in this less than affluent part of Southie. I’ve found that it’s safer to leave the house through the back. “Goodie for her.” I grab my jacket off the back of the chair and head for the kitchen door. In the kitchen, Nana is sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette and reading an issue of People. He turns back to the television, and I spend another valuable thirty seconds fantasizing about bashing his head in with my purse. “Well, maybe you’ll be in charge of more.” “I pay for a third of the rent here,” I remind him. “Watch your mouth, missy, or one of these days you’ll come home and the doors will be locked.” It’s because you’re the grossest person on the planet and you belong in prison.” So, no, it’s not about whether you and I are related.

And-” I swallow a rush of bile, “-and you’re sleeping with Nana now. I stop and use thirty seconds of my precious time to stare at him in disbelief. “It’s not like we’re related, so there’s no incest problem.” “What’s the big deal?” he mocks after me. I drag the keys free and spin back to the doorway. Ray grunts and squirms like the disgusting piece of shit he is until my hand connects with metal. With gritted teeth, I shove my hand under his lard-ass and root around for my keys. So don’t look at me, and don’t call me Rina.” Ray’s the only person who ever calls me that, and I fucking hate it. He makes Homer Simpson look like a gentleman.

I’ve never known a man so desperate to touch his own junk.

I ignore the meaty hand that’s falling to his crotch. I drag a frustrated hand down my flat-ironed hair before stalking over to my stepfather. At my sigh of irritation, he grins and shoves them under his sweatpants-covered ass. The lump of flesh on the couch waves my keys in the air. I’m about to pivot when I hear a jingle of metal behind me.Ĭontempt lodges in my throat as I turn around and step into a living room so small that the five pieces of dated furniture-two tables, one loveseat, one sofa, and one chair-are squashed together like sardines in a can. I check my purse again, but the keys aren’t there. The clock in the narrow hallway tells me I have fifty-two minutes to make a sixty-eight-minute drive if I want to get to the party on time.

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