Black Sheep (This Can't Be Happening collection)

by Rory Scholl

but I did know my grandmother Evelyn was the one member of the family I could really relate to. We were alike in a lot of ways—five very specific ones, actually. The first was that neither of us took anything too seriously.

“You’re reckless and foolish. Just like your grandmother.”

The fourth thing we had in common was the ability to have a good time anywhere.

Right away, my parents looked at me, and then at my grandmother, shaking their heads. For them to assume it was me was really insulting. They were right, of course, but it still hurt. I was on trial again, and I felt like I had the last time I’d been before a judge: guilty but angry that I had gotten caught over something so stupid.

“It was my grandson; he’s been forcing me to drink!” my grandmother suddenly shouted.

The fifth thing my grandmother and I had in common was that we were always being judged—by family, by peers, by anyone in authority.

Damn, though. Eight months?