Текст книги "Sweet Jiminy: A Novel"

Автор книги: Kristin Gore

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Jiminy weaved past Savannah and made her way to the lifeguard chair, aware of how pale her skin was compared to the tanned bodies around her. Looking down at her arms and legs, she saw that her skin was even whiter than usual, thanks to the SPF50 she’d failed to completely rub in.

The lifeguard stared down at her. He was the ruler of this domain and prided himself on knowing everyone. This small, pale woman standing below him was a stranger, though she resembled people he knew. She’d have to explain herself.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“Are you Walton Trawler?” Jiminy asked.

“Indeed, I am,” he answered.

Walton was old, certainly, but he emanated a youthfulness that matched the energy of the kids surrounding him. He’d been the town doctor for fifty years and now filled his retirement with volunteer work and various other projects. His face was tanned and wrinkled, and he wore a weathered fishing hat to protect his bald head. His swimming trunks were decorated with fuschia palm trees.

“Who are you?” he inquired.

He wasn’t as friendly as Jiminy had hoped he’d be.

“I’m Jiminy Davis, Willa Hunt’s granddaughter. I’m interested in learning more about Fayeville, and Jean Butrell suggested I talk to you. She said you’re kind of the town historian, published and all.”

Walton had written several books about the region. He looked more intently at Jiminy, before shifting his gaze to scan the pool.

“I can’t talk now, I’m on the job. Stop by Grady’s Grill this evening and we’ll chat.”

Jiminy nodded. It didn’t seem as though he was going to say anything more to her, so she turned to walk away.

“You have your grandpa’s eyes, you know,” Walton said.

Jiminy paused and turned back.

“Really?”

No one had ever told her this before.

“Spittin’ image,” Walton nodded. “You must break your grandma’s heart.”

 

Roy Tomlins always took his lunch break on the benches of the courtyard lawn, and he generally stopped by Grady’s Grill for his post-work beer. He liked the feel of Grady’s—the sawdust on the floor, the ashtrays on every table, the counter lined with bottles of local hot sauce. He liked that it was generally filled with men he knew, with men he’d known all his life.

They were dying off now, the men of his generation. There were only a handful of them left, and they were vastly outnumbered by the women. Old women live forever, Roy mused. His wife would likely outlast him by decades, continuing to be a waste of space long after he was gone. Roy hated feeling overwhelmed by women, hated the way they banded together when their husbands died off. There was no helping the situation though. This was what it had come to. At least now that Roy had grasped the reality that the guys were on their way out, he felt a new appreciation for their company.

“Evenin’, Grady.”

“Evenin’, Roy. People still sending letters?”

Grady liked to tease that the postal service was on its last legs now that so many people had electronic ways to communicate. Grady himself didn’t email anyone. He still sent letters and occasional care packages to his son and daughter on the West Coast, which Roy knew because Roy monitored everything that crossed his counter.

Of course Roy was well aware that opening someone else’s mail was a serious criminal offense, so he only did it when he was really curious. He kept a steamer in the closet of his office to make it easy, and then he’d seal the envelopes back up good as new. Working in the postal office was an excellent way to keep tabs on the town, a role that Roy took extremely seriously. He considered himself a patriot, first and foremost, and was therefore positive that his watchdog actions were justified, even necessary.

The bell over the door announced a new arrival as Roy was trying to make out the label on a hot sauce bottle in the shape of a naked woman. He turned slightly and looked over his shoulder. It was Walton, which he should’ve expected.

“Evenin’, Walton. Save any lives today?” Grady asked.

“Not yet,” Walton answered.

Walton took his regular seat at the table by the window and began rolling one of his cigarettes. He took pride in only smoking homegrown tobacco. And he restricted himself to smoking only one cigarette a day, mainly because he’d been a doctor for so long and felt he had to keep up appearances. He ate an apple a day also, and hoped that the two canceled each other out.

“Howdy, Walton,” Roy grunted.

“Evenin’, Roy.”

Noticing how hard Roy was studying the Some Like It Hot Sauce, Grady grabbed it and handed it over.

“Well, I’ll be,” Roy exclaimed, running his fingers over the plastic breasts. “This really local?”

“Yep,” Grady affirmed. “Some guy over in Baileyville makes it. I can get you your own if you’re interested. She don’t come life-size, though,” he added with a chuckle.

“How does she taste?” Roy asked with a grin. “Dish me some of that barbequed brisket so I can test ’er.”

From behind the counter, Grady complied. Roy splashed a generous dose on the brisket and took a bite, then grimaced. Grady nodded knowingly as he put the bottle back on the shelf.

“I know,” Grady lamented. “Great package. Godawful flavor.”

“You coulda saved me the trouble,” Roy grumbled.

Grady shrugged.

“Everyone’s got their own tastes,” he replied. “You mighta liked it.”

Roy looked glumly at his remaining barbequed brisket.

“At least give me something good to forget that,” he requested.

Grady rummaged beneath the counter.

“Here’s the best we’ve got. Also new, not as sexy.”

Grady squirted some hot sauce out of a plain plastic bottle. Roy sniffed it warily, then took a bite. He smiled, brisket sticking out between his teeth.

“Now, that’s a hot sauce,” he pronounced happily. “What’s that one? I’ll take some of it to make Helen’s pork chops edible.”

Grady turned the bottle to show him.

“In Foo-ego?” Roy asked.

“En Fuego,” Walton said from over Roy’s shoulder. “It means ‘on fire’ in Spanish.”

Roy was startled by Walton’s sudden closeness. He jerked a little, then pushed his plate away.

“No, thanks. I don’t eat Mexican.”

Grady shrugged.

“Juan from Tortillas gave it to me. It’s good stuff,” Grady said.

Grady said “tortillas” like it rhymed with “vanilla” or “Godzilla.”

“Tor-tee-yas,” Walton corrected. “The two ‘l’s make a ‘y’ sound, and the ‘i’ is pronounced like a long ‘e.’ ”

Both Grady and Roy ignored him. Walton tended to know too much about everything.

Tortillas had opened three months ago, much to the surprise of the Fayeville residents. Some of them were aware that the apartments at the western end of town had seen an influx of Mexicans in recent years, but no one had really tuned in to just how many were now actually calling Fayeville home. Previously, the immigrants’ presence had been temporary. A group of them would arrive to help work the harvest and then leave again. Then, suddenly, they’d stopped leaving. And then more of them had come. There were plenty of jobs for them, that wasn’t the problem. It was just a surprising development for a town that had thought of itself as strictly black and white—and mostly white at that—for its entire history. Mississippi wasn’t Texas; this was the Deep South. And this was brand-new.

“I thought you only bought local stuff,” Walton said.

“It is local,” Grady answered. “I told you, Juan gave it to me. He makes it.”

Roy just shook his head.

The bell over the door announced another patron.

Roy shifted in his seat, hoping to see their old friend Travis Brayer walking in. He knew that Travis was still bedridden—had been bedridden since the month his son announced his race for governor—but Roy hoped nonetheless. He loved Travis, and he planned to visit him soon. They had business to discuss.

It was a young woman. As the door slapped shut behind her, she looked around nervously, like a trapped rabbit. She struck Roy as vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He turned back to his beer.

Jiminy had never been inside Grady’s Grill before. Her eyes watering from the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, she walked over to the table Walton had returned to.

“Is now an okay time?” she asked.

Walton glanced at Roy and Grady, then indicated the empty chair across from him.

“So you’re interested in Fayeville history.”

Jiminy nodded as she settled in opposite him.

“Actually, in a very specific time period,” she answered. “The late sixties. And 1966 in particular. Do you remember that year?”

Walton took a long drag on his cigarette. He nodded slowly, watching Jiminy with an inscrutable expression.

“That was way before you were born,” he said.

“But there was another Jiminy alive then. Jiminy Waters. Did you happen to know her? She was young, only seventeen in 1966. And her father Edward. Did you know them?”

Walton tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. Across the room, Roy shifted his weight on his stool.

“I knew ’em. Edward was a carpenter. Could carve anything outta wood. Anything t’all.”

Jiminy paused. She hadn’t heard this before, hadn’t even thought to ask anyone what Edward had done for a living. She’d thought of him as Lyn’s husband and Jiminy’s father and a murdered man. Just being these things had seemed occupation enough.

“Did he work with my grandpa then?” Jiminy asked.

To help pay for their small farm, Henry Hunt had done carpentry jobs all over Fayeville, according to Willa.

Walton nodded.

“Edward did the woodwork and Henry handled the business side, since he was obviously who folks wanted to deal with.”

This was also news to Jiminy, who had always pictured her grandfather as a master craftsman. She’d imagined that same talent flowed through her veins, hence her fascination with hardware store catalogues and penchant for buying build-it-yourself furniture.

The revelation that Henry hadn’t actually possessed that talent came as a bit of a shock. She thought of a doll she’d once found in her grandpa’s workshop closet—an exquisitely carved wooden boy. She’d gone on imaginary safaris with him, engineered elaborate pillow forts with him, told him her deepest, most precious secrets. She’d imagined her grandpa carving him carefully, lovingly for her, before he even knew she was going to exist. That wooden boy had convinced her she belonged in her family. Had he actually been Edward’s handiwork all along?

“So were my grandpa and Edward friends?” Jiminy asked.

Walton took another long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. Jiminy coughed into her hand and turned toward the window.

“They were close,” Walton answered. “Henry was the boss, but they were close. Edward and Lyn lived just down the hill at that time, in a house by the river that your grandpa owned. So they were tenants as well.”

Jiminy nodded.

“And Lyn worked with my grandmother,” she said.

“For your grandmother, yes, though Lyn worked the farm alongside Henry and Edward for years before Willa came along. And then Lyn worked for the Brayers for a time, too.”

Jiminy looked up quickly.

“For the Brayers? Really?” she asked.

Grady started coughing from across the room, and Jiminy could see out of the corner of her eye that he wasn’t covering his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” Walton answered.

Jiminy contemplated this for a moment.

“Was Lyn close with the Brayers?” she asked.

Walton took another drag on his cigarette.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Jiminy stared at him expectantly, waiting for more information, but none came.

“Did anyone have a problem with them?” she asked finally.

“With who?”

“With Lyn and Edward and my grandparents. With the way they did things, the way they were. With their closeness.”

Walton regarded her, as sizzling noises escaped from the kitchen.

“Pretty much everyone,” he answered.

Jiminy held his gaze, determined not to blink. She had more questions, but she suddenly felt claustrophobic in this hot, smoky, germy place. She stood abruptly.

“I gotta go,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”

She needed to get away. She needed to breathe uncontaminated air. She’d tackle this again, but right now she needed to flee. She felt old men eyes on her as she hurried toward the door.

“Be sure to come back, ya hear?” jangled in her ears along with the screen door bells. She thought she heard chuckling, too, but she couldn’t be sure.

Chapter 6

Jiminy recognized Bo’s deep laugh along with the distinctive voice of Bea Arthur coming from the trailer. The TV volume was too high for anyone to hear her knocks, so she stuck her head in gingerly, trying not to startle anyone. She didn’t succeed. Bo jumped up from where he’d been sprawled on the couch, and abruptly turned off the TV with an embarrassed look on his face. If Jiminy hadn’t already heard some of the dialogue, she would have assumed from his reaction that he’d been watching porn.

“Is that The Golden Girls?” she inquired.

“What, that?” Bo asked, pointing to the TV as though he were an alien who’d just been dropped off and couldn’t be sure of what things were called on this planet. “Nuh-uh, no. Or, maybe. I wasn’t paying too much attention to what I flipped past between games.”

“Dude, what happened to Dorothy?” a voice called from the back of the trailer.

Jiminy turned to see a stocky redhead emerge from the bathroom, brushing his teeth.

“Oh,” he said, as he spotted Jiminy.

“Jiminy, this is Cole,” Bo said. “Cole, Jiminy.”

Bo had told Jiminy about Cole—his best friend from growing up, his roommate for the summer—but she hadn’t actually encountered him until now.

“Hey,” Jiminy said.

Cole stared back.

“We were just watching a game,” he claimed.

“I heard,” Jiminy replied. “It’s too bad, because I love The Golden Girls.”

Both men looked relieved.

“Oh, yeah?” Bo asked.

Jiminy nodded.

“They’re the best, right?” Cole enthused. “Turn it back on, Bo.”

The TV sprang to life as Bo happily complied.

“I’ll go back so you can see it from the beginning,” he offered.

“You have it recorded?” Jiminy asked.

“All of ’em,” Bo confirmed.

He was looking sheepish again. And handsome, in his white T-shirt and jeans. After Cole disappeared back into the bathroom, Jiminy leaned in and kissed him.

“How’d the studying go?”

“Good,” Bo replied, sliding his arm around her and pulling her into him. “Ask me anything about the regulation of kidney function, or just kidneys in general. Anything. I own the kidneys now.”

“Why do so many people shape swimming pools like them?”

Bo paused. He nodded his head sagely, as though he was admiring the sophistication of the question.

“Just know that I know and that the answer is classified. Top secret renal reasons, is all I can say.”

“Hmm. I assumed it had something to do with how often kids pee in them.”

“I see you have high-level clearance,” Bo replied in an exaggeratedly impressed tone.

Jiminy laughed. She looked around the small trailer. It belonged to Cole’s family, who owned the cattle farm on which it was parked. Cole’s parents resided in the large house a half mile away, but Cole preferred the trailer in the summertime. He worked the farm during the day and applied to sports agencies in his free time. He’d only received rejections so far, but he firmly believed he was the next undiscovered Jerry Maguire. He knew it would take a little time to make his mark. He wasn’t in a big hurry.

“All right, I’m outta here, see ya,” Cole called as he exited the trailer. “Nice to meet you, Jiminy, don’t be a stranger.”

Jiminy wondered if Cole really had someplace to go, or if he was just clearing out for her and Bo’s sake.

As the sound of Cole’s footfalls receded, Bo pulled Jiminy onto his lap.

“How was the pool?” he asked as he twisted a piece of her hair around his finger. “Besides being shaped like a human organ.”

Jiminy shrugged.

“Okay, I guess. You know what it’s like.”

But Bo was shaking his head.

“Nope. Never been there.”

Jiminy didn’t believe him.

“Seriously,” he insisted.

“You’re kidding me. Not even once?”

“I’ve driven by. But I’ve never actually gone in.”

“Why not?” Jiminy asked. “The slide looks fun if you’re ten years old with a death wish. You were ten once. Didn’t you want to go?”

Bo thought about it. He could remember being ten years old. Could remember how hot the sun felt on his head and shoulders in July in the yard where he’d set up his toy soldiers in the dirt. He’d never gone to the pool, but he’d gone to the river once. He’d been scared of it, but he’d overcome his hesitation and jumped off a big rock into the surprisingly frigid water. He remembered how his lungs had frozen up, how his blood had suddenly felt like ice water in his veins. And how a cloud had blocked the sun just when he’d climbed out on the bank, causing him to shiver on a hot July day.

Jiminy suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Oh my God, were you not allowed in the pool?” she asked. “Because people . . . because of . . .”

Bo snapped back to the present, away from his river memory.

“It wasn’t anything official,” he answered. “I didn’t care much about going anyway, but I doubt it’s changed. Did you see any black kids there?”

Jiminy shook her head. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier?

“Well, when I was driving home today, I saw some Mexican kids on a Slip ’n Slide,” Bo said. “So we slum it a little, but there are ways around the system.”

Loud, canned laughter sounded from the television, but both of them had lost track of the story line. Bo wanted Jiminy to take her pitying eyes someplace else. He didn’t want that emotion introduced into their relationship.

“You know what? I should probably get some more studying done,” he said suddenly, shifting her off his lap and standing up.

“Really?” Jiminy asked. “I thought we were doing something.”

“Maybe later. Let’s talk later.”

Jiminy nodded slowly, clearly confused. She stood and began to leave the trailer, then paused and turned back.

“Did you know your aunt Lyn worked for the Brayers at one point?” she asked.

Bo stared at her a moment.

“No, I didn’t. She can’t stand the Brayers.”

“Really?” Jiminy asked. “Why not?”

“She never said,” Bo answered. “It’s just something I always knew. We used to take the long way home from school just to avoid going by their place.”

Jiminy nodded thoughtfully, her face full of further questions. Bo studied her and internally debated whether he could reverse course and invite her to stay. But now she was walking away, across the grass, toward Willa’s Buick. She started to turn back again, but stopped herself and climbed into the car. Above her, the sky was bruised with another dying day.

Chapter 7

By the time Juan Gonzales bought the building that would become Tortillas, it had stood empty for nearly thirty years. In its basement, he found furniture that he assumed was from the abandoned movie theater next door: an old ticket-taking booth, a broken counter, and five wooden chairs. The chairs didn’t look like actual theater chairs to Juan, but he hadn’t examined them too closely. When his wife saw them, she decided they’d look nice arranged on the front patio of the restaurant, and she commissioned him to clean them up. Juan personally didn’t consider it worth the effort, but he enjoyed the perks that came with keeping Rosa happy, so he had bent to his task with a rag and bucket of soapy water.

Once the layers of dust and dirt had been cleaned away, the chairs actually did look pretty good. They were made of wood and impressively crafted. They were also each adorned with a shiny metal plate, previously unnoticeable thanks to the grime, attached to the top of the seat back. Engraved on each plate were the initials “K.S.O.” Juan assumed they were the initials of the company that had owned the theater, or made the chairs, or distributed the films. He had pointed them out to Rosa and rubbed them harder to make them shine. She’d smiled excitedly before returning inside to check on the specially made tortillas for which their new restaurant was named.

“Where’d you get those?”

Juan was pleasantly surprised to see Grady standing just at the edge of the patio. Juan admired the success of Grady’s Grill and hoped his own restaurant could inspire such a loyal clientele.

“They came with the place,” Juan answered. “In the basement.”

Juan recognized the empty bottle Grady carried in his hand and wondered if he was going to be asked for his hot sauce recipe. He’d sell Grady all the sauce he wanted, but he wasn’t going to reveal its secret, and he hoped that wouldn’t make things awkward.

“They don’t belong to you, I don’t think,” Grady said.

Juan waited for him to say more. Grady became self-conscious.

“I mean, I s’pose if they came with your place, then you’d think they’re yours, a’course. But those belonged to the Brayer family. I recognize them.”

Juan looked down at the chairs he’d just spent an hour and a half cleaning. Rosa had really had a vision of how these chairs were going to look outside of Tortillas. She wanted them arranged just so; he knew the way her mind worked. The same mind that had decided their daughter would be named “Penelope” and nicknamed “Pen” long before they’d even conceived. The mind that planned the menu months in advance, that obsessed over colors in flower displays, that wouldn’t let anyone help her make her signature empanadas. Juan didn’t want to have to tell Rosa that her chair brainstorm wasn’t going to happen.

“I think the Brayers just lost track of ’em,” Grady was saying. “But those gold plates are pretty recognizable.”

Surely they weren’t real gold. Was that why this was such an issue? Juan wondered. Now Rosa would be even more upset if he let them go.

“What does ‘K.S.O.’ stand for?” Juan asked.

Grady straightened.

“Something someone else knows about, I guess,” he replied. “I’ll tell Travis Brayer you’ve got his chairs. Maybe he’ll be fine with you keepin’ ’em, you never know.”

Juan nodded slowly. From the tone of Grady’s voice he could tell that Grady believed that Travis would not be fine with Juan keeping them.

“It’s just that, in this country, you can’t come in and take things that rightfully belong to others, that’s all,” Grady said.

Juan remained silent. Grady reddened a bit.

“Anyway, I love that sauce a yours,” he continued. “Could I get some more? I’ll pay for it, a’course.”

Juan looked Grady directly in the eyes.

“I’m all out,” he lied.

Grady held Juan’s gaze for a moment, then looked off at the purple sky.

“Well, let me know when you make more and have some to spare. I really do like it.”

Juan nodded.

“Sure, amigo. I’ll let you know.”

 

Walton hadn’t told Jiminy that he’d been in the room when Lyn had come to see the bodies of her husband and daughter on that June night in 1966. He hadn’t told Jiminy much of anything, really. With Roy and Grady listening, he’d said a tiny bit about Edward, Lyn, Willa, and Henry, but there was so much more. Way too much more.

When Henry Hunt had found the bodies of Edward and Jiminy Waters two weeks after they’d gone missing, he’d brought them by the hospital to get them cleaned up. After some strong resistance, Walton had tended to them. And then Lyn had arrived.

Walton closed his eyes at the memory. In fifty years as Fayeville’s doctor, he’d seen a lot of pain. And in all of that time, nothing matched the crumpling of Lyn Waters.

She didn’t make a scene, like some people did when confronted with the corpses of loved ones. She didn’t pound her fists into the wall, she didn’t tear at her hair or explode into paroxysms of sobs. She looked at them—one long look at her dead husband’s face, one long look at her dead daughter’s. Then she stared straight ahead, into a void visible only to her, and her face fell off of itself. Walton didn’t know how else to describe it: As far as he could tell, whatever was alive in Lyn had poured out of her in that moment. It had streamed out of her nostrils, and her slightly parted lips, and the corners of her eyes. In a rush, it had fled.

Walton had gone cold at the sight. Henry had hurried to take Lyn in his arms, but she’d held up her hand, stopping him with a silent command. She’d looked at them both with hollow eyes, then turned and walked out of the room. From then on, Lyn had seemed no more than a shell of a human, filled only with haunted echoes of previous life.

Walton hadn’t mentioned any of this to Willa’s granddaughter, but that June night was seared into his memory. After Lyn left, one of Edward’s brothers had come to collect the bodies. There’d been a funeral that Walton hadn’t attended, but he knew where the gravesite was, and over the years, he’d found himself occasionally driving past it at night after leaving the hospital. On this night, he found himself headed there again.

He steered his car off the pavement and continued up the dirt road. At the top of the ridge, he stopped to take in the view. The lights of HushMart flickered behind him, but before him the hills rolled out as far as a person could see. By the soft glow of the nearly full moon, he could make out the inky curves of the Allehany River as it flowed around and between and against, patiently wearing down the land.

Walton climbed out of his car and walked up the slope to the huge magnolia tree, aware that the ache in his knee was worsening. He’d managed to hang onto all his original joints thus far, but he saw artificial ones in his future. He was under no illusions about being in decline.

At the start of his retirement, Walton had written several books about the history and geology of Fayeville. In one chapter about Fayeville plants, he’d actually featured the tree that was now before him. It was enormous, and the smell of its flowers could be sweetly overpowering, especially when a breeze blew down from the bluff. Amid the fallen blossoms on the ground were headstones, marking the graves of dozens buried in the magnolia’s shadow. Nobody white was buried here—there was a county-maintained cemetery in town for them. This magnolia tree cemetery was more haphazard and bureaucracy-free, maintained by people nobody paid. It was where the black residents of Fayeville had been burying their dead for over two hundred years.

Walton fished a pocket flashlight out and shined it on the spot he remembered. There they were—two rough-edged stone slabs that peeked six inches above the ground. They’d risen higher forty years ago, but the gravestones were settled in and tilting now. They seemed at peace.

As a rule, Walton didn’t believe in visiting people’s graves. He never checked in on the final resting plots of his own friends and relatives—he preferred to remember how they’d been alive. And he considered himself extremely rational. He knew the ground only held decomposing bio-matter, not the spirits or souls of the departed. But ever since he’d watched Lyn fly out of herself and walk away, he’d felt drawn to the place where her loved ones had been laid to rest. In visiting their graves, he attempted to pay them some kind of tribute, or apology.

It wasn’t until he had turned to walk back to his car that his eye caught the glint of white on the wooden cross that marked the start of the cemetery. He trained his flashlight on it and stepped closer, wincing at the pinch in his knee. The letters were big, and freshly painted, he guessed. The empty spray-paint can from HushMart was discarded nearby.

Walton exhaled slowly. There’d been a time when those letters had seemed omnipresent around Fayeville. There’d been a time when Walton had identified with them. He’d learned since then, and now the sight of the recently branded “K.S.O.” on the cross made him weary. And worried.

 

“Was I wrong to chase her off?” Bo asked.

He was tossing a football with Cole, syncing his regret to the spiraling ball. He imagined hurling his doubts away from him with each arm pump. Unfortunately, they kept slamming back into him.

“Dude, you don’t want her pity,” Cole replied with a shrug.

Cole had been Bo’s best friend since they’d met in Little League as five-year-olds. Whereas Bo had always been talkative and bright, Cole was a man of few words, many of which were “dude.” Still, the two of them understood each other perfectly.

“Yeah, I don’t need this, you know?” Bo said. “I should just stick to my plan—lay low, save money, get ready for med school, get out of here.”

Bo waited for Cole to agree with him.

“But she is something,” Bo sighed.

Jiminy had been an unexpected distraction. Her hesitancy intrigued him. Her flashes of assertiveness unnerved him. And kissing her had been a revelation. Bo wanted to kiss her again, and the thought that he might not be able to made him frantic.

“Damn,” he said quietly to himself.

He knew that in this town there were plenty of reasons to think twice about pursuing her. Of all people, Cole knew this, too. Cole had fought many fights over his friendship with Bo.

“Dude,” Cole said, as he caught and held the ball.

Bo stared at him, wondering if there would be more.

“Go get her.”

Bo broke into a grin. They knew this place. They were of this place. But they were young.

 

Jiminy was reading outside, scratching a mosquito bite with one hand and swinging her free-hanging leg back and forth so that it made a pendulum shadow against the smooth stone patio. She looked up when Bo’s truck pulled into the driveway, grateful that if a person kept her ears open, the gravel made it impossible for anyone to sneak up.

“Hey,” she said, as she half-closed her book.

She started to smile but held herself back, letting only the edges of it creep into her voice. She wasn’t sure whether she and Bo were liking each other or not. She’d been confused by their last encounter.

“What are your thoughts on Dairy Queen?” he asked.

She closed her book all the way.

 

“This is the only thing cows are good for,” Jiminy said as she licked her chocolate-dipped vanilla cone. “And hamburgers. And cheese. In that order.”

They were sitting at a picnic table in the grass between the road and the Dairy Queen parking lot.

“Have you always been scared of them?” Bo asked between bites of his caramel sundae.

Jiminy nodded.

“They’re evil,” she whispered.

“They’re dumb,” Bo offered.

“That’s the worst kind of evil,” Jiminy replied.

“That’s debatable,” Bo countered with a grin. “Evil geniuses are no picnic.”

“Fair point,” Jiminy conceded.