The Year I Became Isabella Anders (Sunnyvale, #1)

I carry his gaze for a beat or two longer, and the smile on his face grows. I narrow my eyes at him and flip him the middle finger, just because I can. He laughs then winks at me before disappearing inside his house.

I check out Kyler one last time before I return to my bed to finish my drawing of Zombie Artist Girl, who looks great in a cape and can behead a zombie like a badass mofo.

But, the second I plant my butt down on the mattress, my bedroom door opens. I prepare myself for an argument with Hannah, figuring it’s her coming to chew my ass out for the chocolate incident, but instead, my mom and dad walk in.

I give them both a puzzled look, because they hardly ever step foot in my room, let alone together.

My mom scans all the movie, comic, and band posters hanging on my black and violet walls then rolls her eyes at one of my sketches, or what she calls my ‘coloring book drawings’.

“What a waste of time,” she mutters, shaking her head.

I blow out a breath, trying to let her disapproval breeze past me. But that lack of air sensation appears as my lungs tighten and the shell I live in shrinks even more.

“Did you guys need something?” I close my sketchbook to avoid any more of her insults.

Her cold eyes land on me. “Turn the music down. We need to talk.”

I look over at my dad, who’s staring at the window, his eyes all lost-scared-puppy wide.

Something’s up.

“Okay.” I tear my attention off my dad as I reach over to turn down my stereo. “What’s up?”

She presses a glance at my dad, but his eyes are fastened on the window. “Do you want to tell her? Or should I?” When my father doesn’t budge, she huffs, snapping her fingers. “Henry, we agreed to this, so either you can tell her, or I can.”

My dad rubs his hand over his head then looks at me. Or, well, the space around me. “Isabella, your mother thinks—” My mom clears her throat, and my father adds, “Your mother and I were thinking that you should live with your grandmother for the summer.”

“For the entire summer?” I ask, shocked.

“You’ll go in a couple of days when school gets out,” my mom says, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of her pencil skirt. “And you can return here to finish up your senior year.”

The way she words it is confusing, like they’re kicking me out but allowing me to come back to finish school.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. “Which grandmother?”

My dad clears his throat. “Grandma Stephy.”

I relax a bit. If it would’ve been Grandma Jane, my mom’s mom, then it would’ve been an entirely different story. The woman criticizes me even more than my mom does, so much that I sometimes refer to her as Grandma Jane, Isabella Ego Slayer.

“Okay, I’ll go.” And hey, it might be good to get a break, if for nothing else than to get away from Hannah and whatever death-to-Isabella tactics she has planned for the summer.

“Of course you’ll go, since it’s not a choice,” my mom snaps. “We didn’t come in here to ask you to go. We came in here to tell you that you’re going to go. That we need a little bit of a break from your sarcasm, your rudeness, and your,” she waves her fingers at my worn-out sneakers, holey, a-size-too-big jeans, and my oversized hoodie—my typical outfit, “whatever the hell this disaster is.”

“Honey, easy.” My dad glances at me, throwing me off with the brief eye contact. “She’s just a kid.”

She points a finger at him. “Don’t you easy me. I’ve had enough of this,” her finger moves to me, “enough of her. And quite frankly, enough of you. I need a break from one of you, so it’s either you or her, and I’d really prefer her.” She spins on her heels for the door. “This was never part of the deal, and I want it fixed.” She storms out of the room.

“What deal?” I ask my dad.

My dad’s gaze bounces back and forth between me and the doorway. “Sorry, Isa. I really am,” he mutters before rushing away with his shoulders hunched, cowering like a dog with his tail between his legs. He stops in the doorway for a second to say, “Call your grandmother. She wants to talk to you about taking a trip overseas, if you’re up for it. But don’t tell you mother; otherwise, she might not let you go do something so . . . fun.” Then he hurries out of the room like it’s on fire.