He doesn’t see me.

He never does.

Sigh.

I pass the sign at the city limits. Now leaving Blue Falls. Y’all come back now, ya hear! The blue cartoon boar painted on the corner is forever frozen with an eternal smile, waving one hoof in the air.

Five minutes later, I’m navigating down the wide gravel drive toward home.

Granny is on the porch, sitting in a bright-yellow chair, her red overalls clashing with the navy blue of the large barn-style front door. The giant ranch house is painted in a variety of eclectic colors—orange shutters, red trim, blue shingles—and yet it somehow works in a weird, artsy, avant-garde way. Just like my parents, colorful and weird.

It’s good to be home. Except . . . Granny’s holding a shotgun.

Not necessarily an unusual sight.

I get out and pop the trunk, grabbing my backpack. “Are you shooting rabbits in the front yard again?” I call out when I’m nearly to the porch steps.

She loves to Elmer Fudd her way around the front yard, chasing those wiley wabbits and yelling about how they eat her lettuce and turnips and poop all over her grass. “Nope. Got a call from the university today.”

Well, crap on Copernicus. “I can explain—”

“You get right back in that car and go on back to school, you hear?” She stands up, still holding the gun.

“But I have nowhere to live. I got . . . they kicked me out of the dorms. There’s nowhere else for me to stay.”

She’s shaking her head before I even finish my story or have a chance to explain fully. “You can’t stay here, Tootsie Roll. You need to find your own way. It’s like I always say, life is like a box of condoms. You need to use them for good living or protection. But . . . you know, the terms aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“What?” That doesn’t make sense. Not that anything Granny says ever really makes sense. She’s always mixing up her expressions and making up random ones.

“It’s for your own good, okay? Oh, and take the bag of clothes there with you.” She motions with the gun to a brown paper grocery bag. “It’s about time you got back. I love you and I’ll see you on Sunday for dinner. Get on back now.” She makes a shooing gesture with the gun.

I pick up the bag, recognizing the bright shirt folded neatly on top—one I bought on a shopping trip with Scarlett before I started high school, years ago.

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

She cocks the gun, but keeps it pointed at the deck. “You sure about that?”

I’m not.

Maybe she won’t shoot to kill, but to frighten and potentially maim? Wouldn’t put it past her.

Everyone in my family has been pushing me to socialize and make friends and “get out there.” Well, now I’ve been out there. I know Granny thinks this is some kind of tough love gesture, but right now it’s more tough than love.