Multigenerational
There he stood, my grandmother's Spirit Man. He came up to my thigh, carved out of wood so dark it was almost black—wearing a scowl and a ring through his nose and a grass skirt that should have looked silly but didn't. He looked angry and strong and mean. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry.
This birthday was getting a little bit better. Brady took a big breath. If he tiptoed, he could sneak outside without anyone noticing. He turned to leave the room. A low growl sent prickles up his spine. In the shadowy hallway, a pair of white fangs gleamed. Grit was blocking the doorway.
Why did everyone keep asking me how I felt? How did they expect me to feel? I felt rotten. I felt worried. I felt scared.
Scared about her falling and hurting herself.
And very very scared about what my friends would say when they found out what was going on.
How did I feel? What a dumb question.
