In the morning, Fay comes in my room while I’m still half-asleep. She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt that hugs her pregnant belly. Falkor trots in behind her with a chewed-up football in his mouth. He sits next to my bed and drops the drool-covered, deflated ball. Aikman’s signature is torn in half . . . some of it is missing, probably been swallowed by the beast.
“He ate it,” I mumble in shock.
“I know, isn’t that so cute! Kierra was tossing it to him this morning in the front yard, teaching him how to play fetch.”
Shit. Kierra really knows how to say f**k you without uttering a word.
“I have an appointment for an ultrasound next week,” my stepmother says in an excited tone. “I want you to come with me.”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on. Since your dad’s not here, I really really want you
