Tori shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want him living right next to us.”
My brows lift, and I can’t help the edge of condescension that creeps into my voice. “Tori, what could you possibly do about it?”
She raises her chin and crosses her arms over her chest. “I could tell Mrs. Vivian I don’t appreciate her harboring criminals, and if I get even a whiff of anything remotely illegal coming from him, I’ll call the police immediately.”
“Victoria,” I sigh, slouching. It feels like weights hang from my shoulders. “You don’t have to be like that.”
Her mouth tightens. “Someone does. It’ll put him on notice.”
I roll my eyes. “It’ll offend our neighbor — a woman we’ve known since we were kids.” She stares at me, unmoved. I try a different tack. “And think about it. If heisa violent criminal — and I’m not saying he is — do you really want to piss him off?”
“I won’t be bullied in my own neighborhood,” Tori declares with a tight shake of her head.
I sigh again. “I’m guessing he won’t be either,” I say softly.
Tori’s eyes bug. “Are you saying I’m a bully? Is that what you’re saying?”
A bayberry bush has thorns pointing in every direction. Only a fool would walk straight into one. Clearly, I am such a fool.
“Tori, let me talk to Mrs. Vivian.” I hear myself say. “I’ll find out more about him and what’s going on. Maybe the situation is temporary. Maybe… I don’t know… maybe he’s found God or something. It might not be as bad as you think.”
Shehmphsand rolls her eyes. “That’s so like you,” she mutters. “Ever the idealist. But fine, whatever. You talk to Mrs. Vivian and find out what the hell is going on with that jailbird grandson of hers. And you can casually mention that I’m thinking of buying a handgun.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DREW
My first night on the outside seems as long December.
I can’t remember ever being so fucking cold. The futon mattress may be softer than my plastic-covered, prison-issue one, but if I lie straight, my heels stick off the end, so instead, I stretch out corner to corner, which feels risky after so long on a top bunk.
The AC blows straight through the afghan bedspread like a cold front. I try to keep my eyes shut and dig into my pillow against the blast, but the strain gives me a headache. After about an hour of this, I get up, cross the room, and shut the damn thing off.
Without the noise of the window unit, silence falls over the apartment. Absolute silence. But at least it’s not freezing. I turn back and stop to glare at the futon. My head fizzes with the chatter of my cousins, aunts, and uncles. And my stomach groans against the glut of food Grandma Q served up. Brisket. Buttered corn. Fig preserves over ice cream. Like nothing I’ve had in years, and I’ve got the heartburn to prove it.
I might as well face it. I’m not going to sleep anytime soon.
Especially not after working out my grandmother’s plans. I love her more than life, but I swear, that woman is a master manipulator. She may have been wearing a look of loving innocence, but she knew exactly what she was doing when she cornered my cousin Chip.
Apparently, Chip and his buddy Cody own a garage. Grandma Quincy asked Chip — in front of everyone — if he’d hire me. We were all sitting down to the feast she’d made, and Chip had just sunk his teeth into brisket-on-French-bread when she did it. I’ve never seen a picnic table full of people get so quiet so damn quick.
My cousin’s startled eyes had cut to mine before he’d looked back at Grandma Quincy, but I saw the wariness in them. He wanted to hire me about as much as he wanted a rabid dog to kiss him full on the mouth.
With that memory, the apartment’s silence seems to close around my throat. I yank open the door, practically bolt outside, and lean against the stair rail.
The buzz of locusts crowds my ears, and the familiar noise is a relief. Locusts clamor at Angola all summer long. Hot nights and the drone of their music go hand in hand. I sink down onto the landing and let my legs dangle over the edge. The middle rail hits me right at my chest, so I cross my arms on it and rest my chin, just listening.
Chip doesn’t want to hire me, and I don’t blame him, but I need a job, and working in a garage is something I can do.
Hell, I’d be good at it.
At Grandma Q’s pointed question, Chip had mumbled something about looking into it, but he hardly sounded enthusiastic. Even though his feelings were obvious, Grandma Q still pulled me aside after dinner, telling me — not suggesting — but telling me to go over to the garage tomorrow to put in an application.
And I think I have to do it.
I don’t want to put Chip in a tough spot, but who else would hire me? And maybe it wouldn’t have to be for very long. Maybe if I work there for sixth months or a year until my probation is over, I could look for something else. With some experience on the outside, maybe another garage would take me on.
I close my eyes because trying to picture that far into the future is a mind fuck. Picturing tomorrow is only just bearable. I can barely handle getting from this moment to the next.
