Grown

by Tiffany D. Jackson

But there’s only bodyguards. And they all seem to be standing away from us, backs turned, pretending they’re invisible.

Damn..

“Pull down your shirt, baby,” Mom mumbles, yanking my top. “Don’t want these grown men looking at what you got.”

Across the room, my parents are gushing in front of their favorite artist. Tony is somehow blocking my view of them. Or maybe he’s blocking their view of me.

There’s nothing normal about being trapped in the house, taking care of kids you didn’t birth.

It’s like . . . she lets this super-old creepy vampire come stalking into her life. Purposely puts herself in danger, risks her life for a guy who should know better and leave her alone.

“Well, first, we gotta talk about making love.” I freeze. “What?” “Making love,” he says, matter-of-factly. “We gotta talk about it so we can write a song about it, Bright Eyes.”

Oh noooooo

Daddy’s nos are firm, walls built of concrete.

But Mom’s nos are made of drywall. Can be penetrated with the right force and tools.

desperate.

Grandma always told me the sun rises in the east, sets in the west.

Its battery died right as Richie shoved the knife into Korey’s chest. Richie was arrested. So was a thirty-five-year-old