Chapter One – Continued …
Finding someplace to hire me turned out to be harder than I expected. I couldn’t get work as a waitress because no restaurant wanted to hire someone who’d never waitressed before. And retail was another “no fly” zone for two reasons: 1. I don’t care about clothes and 2. The girls who work in those stores freak me out. I always feel like they size you up according to your size.
That’s why I applied for the job at Hanover House when I saw the ad on Craigslist. Being a candy striper seemed pretty low key, and amazingly, this place even paid a weekly stipend. Plus, I figured the old folks wouldn’t care that my idea of dressing up is zipping my hoodie. The surprise was that I actually wound up liking the job. But that had a lot to do with Mr. Sands. I met him on the first official day of fall when I entered his room to water the plants. A troupe of local musicians who came to play in the residents’ room walked in behind me. But they only got to the first chorus in “The Circle of Life” before Mr. Sands stopped them.
“I’m sorry, but my granddaughter,” he said, tilting his head in my direction, “had a very traumatic experience at a performance of The Lion King when she was younger, didn’t you, honeybunch?” His eyes gleamed as they connected with mine and I took the cue. “It was terrible.” I nodded, holding his gaze. “One of the giraffes lost his balance, fell forward, and took the whole chain of animals down with him.”
“My poor girl learned the true meaning of survival of the fittest that day,” Mr. Sands continued. “Now, I’m sure you don’t want to bring up any unpleasant memories here, do you?” The musicians, who were usually greeted with big smiles from grateful residents, looked at one another, bewildered. “I didn’t think so,” he said, dismissing them. “Good-bye.” Once the troupe was a safe distance out the door, Mr. Sands winked at me, then started laughing.
“Well, aren’t you the good little liar,” he said.
“Guess it runs in our genes, huh Gramps?” I replied, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Grace.”
“Frank Sands,” he said. “How old are you, Grace?”
“Fifteen.”
“That’s a terrible age.”
I nodded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“It’s better than being eighty-four.”
“You’re eighty-four?”
“You were thinking I didn’t look a day over eighty-three, right?” Mr. Sands grinned. “Hey, you play cards?”
“No.”
“That’s a character flaw, Grace. But don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
