Free Turn Left at the Cow by Lisa Bullard Page B

bunch of stuff I needed to know. But I wanted staying or leaving to be
my
choice. I didn’t know why it seemed different, but it did: getting to choose between two places where I didn’t really fit somehow seemed better than just being trapped in one of them.
    There was only one thing I knew for sure: I’d really, really rather go backwards in time and get one more chance with Iz before that stupid loon interrupted us than have to move forward and deal with all the crap a brand-new day was bound to bring me.
    The loon suddenly cackled his crazy laugh again, and this creepy feeling spidered its way down the back of my neck. Even the local wildlife was messing with me. So I picked up my plate and headed inside to bed.

CHAPTER 11
    I just couldn’t seem to find the appropriate rule of etiquette that covered how to ask your grandma if she was a bigtime felon.
    So by the time I wandered out of my bedroom at noon the next day, I knew what I had to do. I was going to have to sneak around behind Gram’s back to figure out if she’d been sneaking around behind everybody else’s. It seemed like the only choice I had if I wanted to be able to decipher the truth about my family. Not to mention if I decided I needed to get out of Dodge anytime before I was old enough to vote.
    And I was going to need some help playing superspy.
    I remembered Gram saying something to her posse about more fundraiser setup that afternoon, so the first step of the plan was to get myself out of helping with that. When I walked into the kitchen, Gram was washing dishes. By hand. Which maybe was some kind of clue all on its own. I mean, if you had bank-robbery bucks stashed away somewhere, wouldn’t you head on down to the Big Store and have the King order you up the biggest darn dishwasher he could find?
    I picked up the dishtowel and started drying. Gram gave me that look that adults get when they know you’re up to no good; I guess taking on a chore without being asked at least three times first is like what they call a “tell” on TV poker.
    But apparently Gram had as much on her mind as I did on mine, because after a moment she picked up the next plate and began washing it.
    â€œThanks for leaving me dinner last night. It was good,” I opened.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to cook for someone besides myself again.” She handed me the wet plate. “Especially somebody who enjoys it the way you do. I’d forgotten how a thirteen-year-old boy can eat. That’s one way you’re exactly like your father. That and charming every Church Lady in sight.”
    â€œUh, Gram . . . speaking of the Church Ladies—or really, I mean, about the church fundraiser . . .”
    She stopped me. “Travis, I know that hearing the deputy’s accusations yesterday upset you. And I understand better than anyone what it feels like when people around here suspect the worst of you. I know going to the fundraiser means you’ll have to face a roomful of strangers—some of whom think you’re up to no good. I’m sure that seems hard. But the best way to prove you didn’t do anything wrong is to just march right into that church tonight with your head held high. If the people of this town can’t deal with that, then they’re the ones who should stay home.”
    It hadn’t occurred to me that other people might already be suspicious of Gram—might think she knew something about the missing money. Stupid me. Just what kind of crap had she put up with over the years?
    And what kind of rotten grandson was I for suspecting her myself?
    â€œI don’t mind going to the actual fundraiser,” I said hurriedly, although the truth was, I wasn’t sure which would be more painful: that, or the time my stepfather insisted on subjecting me to the birds-and-bees talk. “I was just wondering if I could maybe get out of helping with setup again today,” I