I remember catching that hard-skinned, sour-fleshed Granny Smith apple. Tossing it in the air as my immaculate converse sneakers slapped the fresh floorboards in our new house.
Moms going to kill me for having my shoes on in the house. Even if they're straight from the box.
Speak of the devil, walked into the dining room after me, carrying a crucifix of all things. She eyed my sneakers that apparently weren't being sneaky enough. Turning her back to me, she hung the gory crucifix to the wall behind the king's seat. Casting an eye back at me, with its dark slash of eyebrow. She always thinks I'm up to something. Like I'm picking my nose behind her back or something. She's lucky I'm not. My mouth formed into an insolent concrete pout. Clutching the apple, I crossed the room, bashing my shoulder into a wooden oak dining chair. I heard her draw breath to reprimand m, so I hurtled out of the room.
That'll teach her for uprooting me.