Jerome didn't find his grandmother fascinating. He found her old and smelly and boring. He hated visiting, but his mother always dragged him along. She even made him dress up. "What for?" he would ask. "It's not like it's church or something."
"Don't sass, just button your shirt right and tuck it in neatly." His mom was a stickler for looking neat when dressed up. He was afraid that someday she might make him iron his own clothes. He was, after all, twelve now, and she was already making him learn to cook.
"What for?" he asked. "Ain't I going to have a wife?" That earned him a slap. Despite the painful start, Jerome was actually becoming quite a good cook. His grandmother, however, was not.
"What if she tries to make me eat one of her sassafras cookies? I don't like those awful cookies. Can't I tell her no?"
"No. You cannot. You will eat two to be polite, and you will not attempt to feed any to Beautiful. That dog was sick for a week. Tie your shoes."
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