Grandma Dearest

          She's going to be here soon. My unevenly trimmed nails dig into my palms, disgustingly moist and paint splattered. My oddly fitting braces burrow into my cheeks. I feel unworthy, useless, unnoticed, a worm wriggling under her sharp laughter. There will be no laugher today, only pain on my behalf, and perhaps hers as well.

          I've got the jitters, and my feet can't stop moving, pulling my jeans into the zippers of my boots. I'm so anxious about seeing her, telling her, that I'm shaking. No songs would work for this, and even if  I could write them, I couldn't perform them.

          I twist my earbuds into place, and press play. It's the type of music she hates, she would judge the vocalist for being in this type of band. I turn the music up much too high, and then wrench the earbuds out, almost breaking them. I put on my bronze colored vest; it always makes me feel warmer and more human, and more safe.

          I walk outside, Grabbing a tennis ball out of the tube. I dribble the ball, tossing it against the garage door harder and harder until the ball bounces onto the roof and gets stuck in the gutter. I hear brakes. I wipe my hands on my pants and head inside. My hands are in my pockets and my head is down; she's here.