ReBoot (MAC Security 4)

“Gran,” he groans.

“Don’t you ‘Gran’ me. You’re never too old for the bottom of my slipper, boy.”

Their voices get quieter as they walk away and I take a deep breath.

How did it go from feeling like I was part of a family to feeling like an outsider once again in the space of twelve hours?

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you about wearing those t-shirts, pumpkin.” The way she says pumpkin has a shiver rolling through me. I hate it when she uses that tone.

“What?” I ask Geena, turning my gaze to hers as I pull away from the sidewalk of her apartment building. “What’s wrong with my t-shirt?”

I look down at it, reading the words “My Spirit Animal is a Goth Teenager.” It’s one of my favorites.

“It’s so…” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “Immature.”

“We’re only going to Dad and Pop’s house.”

She opens her purse, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as she pulls out a mirror and red lipstick. You’d think she was going to a fancy restaurant with what she’s wearing. I’m in a t-shirt and jeans—comfortable and casual—but she’s in a small, tight, dark-blue dress with sequins running inside the V that runs down to the top of her sternum. Her feet are encased in matching five-inch stilettos and her hair and makeup are done to perfection. Not a thing out of place. As usual.

“It doesn’t matter where we’re going. You should dress better.”

“But I’m comfy in these,” I answer her as I drive past the community center. My eyes linger on the building, knowing that Lexi is there.

I didn’t see her when I taught my Monday class yesterday. It was almost like she was hiding from me again. I could have gone and found her, but I didn’t want to push her if she was distancing herself from me. Maybe it would be for the best.

“What are you doing?” Geena snaps, slapping her hand on my thigh to gain my attention. I grit my teeth from the sting of her palm and grip the steering wheel harder, not bothering to answer her.

I’m still grasping the wheel just as tight when I pull up outside of Dad and Pop’s house a few minutes later.

Geena is oblivious to the vibe I’m giving off, flicking her hair over her shoulder and pushing open the door. “Come on!” she shouts as she gets out of the car.

I watch as she walks up the path, sneering at my dad’s eco car as she goes. It’s right here and now that I realize that I don’t feel what I used to for her. What I used to find endearing, I now find a little irritating. I hate that these thoughts are running through my head because there was a time when we got on so well. Something has switched lately; I don’t know what it is but it feels like all she ever does is talk down to me and tell me what to do.

Or has it always been that way and I’m only now noticing it?

I can’t help but watch her and wonder if there was ever that feeling between us; you know the one that has you wanting to spend every last waking minute with someone? I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that with Geena. It’s not that I don’t like being around her—when she’s being nice—but I honestly wouldn’t be bothered if I didn’t see her for a full week. It shouldn’t be like that.

I push all of my warring thoughts down, not willing to delve deeper into them right now. Getting out of the car, I see my dad open the front door and I jog up the path, wrapping my arms around his shoulders just after Geena slips past him, not giving him more than a small wave. This isn’t how it should be, they should be greeting each other like this with a hug.

“Hey, Dad.”

He pulls back slightly, framing my face with his large hands, his light-brown eyes full of questions. “You okay, son?”

He’s always had this sixth sense of when something is bothering me, but right now I wish that he didn’t because I want to forget about everything and just enjoy Po

p’s birthday dinner.

“What? Yeah, I’m good.” I paste on the same smile that I always used to and walk past him. “Where’s Pop?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” Dad answers, closing the front door behind him.

“Do I hear my boy?”

“Pop!” I grin as I walk into the kitchen, Geena nowhere in sight. “How’s it feel to be fifty? Any new gray hairs?”

“Hey!” He swipes his hand through his ink-black hair. “I’ll never go gray, I have good genes.” He winks.

“No… I think you’re wrong. I see one there.” I point at his hair, my face a mask of seriousness causing his baby-blue eyes to widen.