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She eyes Bobby. “You’re seein’ someone already, aren’t you.”
I choke on the sip of orange juice I just took. Bobby freezes in place, his eyes as wide as my mama’s hoop earrings.
“I …” Bobby swallows. “I’m, uh …”
“I knew it!” She slaps the table once for punctuation and gives a nod of victory. “I got a fifth sense with these things.”
“Sixth,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes.
Then, to my surprise, Bobby goes right along with it. “Yeah, I’m really sorry, Mrs. Strong. I just didn’t want to tell anybody. I need to keep the news to myself for now. It’s for the best.”
“But why?? Goodness, it’s such great news!” She applauds for no reason other than to fill the kitchen with her obnoxious, ear-splitting claps. “I want to meet him! Who is he? Is he a boy back at school, is that why you—Well, that don’t make sense, why would you keep that a secret if he isn’t even here? Oh my God, that means he is here!” She gasps. “He’s here in Spruce and that’s why you want to keep it a secret! Oh, you have to tell me, Bobby. Who is he? Is he the new boy they hired down at the Marvin brothers’ market? I always thought that boy had a look about him.”
Bobby knew better than to give my mama a juicy, steaming cup of tea like that. That woman is an atom bomb of world-ruining proportions when she gets excited.
“I really don’t want to say anything,” he calmly replies. “It’s still very …” He bites his lip, then drags his sad brown eyes across the table until they’re on me. “… new.”
I stare back, frozen in place, drops of orange juice still drip-drip-dripping off my chin.
I think I might be holding my breath.
My mama sputters about twenty more times and does half a backflip in her seat before she finally reels it in with a, “Alright, I’ll behave, okay, alright. I am very mad at you, Bobby, but okay, if you insist on keeping it a secret—Urgh!—I’ll just have to deal.” She runs a hand through her hair, anxiously adjusts three of the rings on her fingers, then huffs. “I’ll respect your privacy.”
Bobby takes one of her hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Strong.”
“Oh, shush with that Mrs. Strong formality mango-jumbo. You call me Nadine, you know better.” She rises from the table.
“Mama.”
She looks my way. “What?”
“The sayin’ is mumbo-jumbo.” I give her a shriveled smile. “Not mango-jumbo. That’s a fruit.”
“I know dang well what I said.” She eyes Bobby. “You sure you can’t just give me a hint? Ugh, never mind, you boys are cruel.” She saunters out of the kitchen while calling out at us over her shoulder. “You two’d better get cleaned up in a hurry then if we’re gonna make it to church on-time for the noon service. Jacky-Ann! Good Lord, are you dead? The boys! The boys!”
Bobby and I share a look. “Uh, Mama,” I call back, “we weren’t plannin’ on going to church with—”
“Well, ya are now!” she calls out at her bedroom door before it slaps shut.
The two of us are left at the table, staring at each other over glasses of barely-sipped orange juice. My crutch loses its balance leaning against the kitchen table and falls to the hard tile below with a loud, echoing clack.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re … ‘seein’ someone’ …?”
Bobby shrugs.
I sigh, shake my head, then lean over the table and lower my voice. “You realize she ain’t gonna sleep a wink ‘til she finds out who the hell you’re seeing? That involves a thorough and invasive investigation, and what’s your plan when she gets too close to the truth for comfort?”
“Calm your tits,” he retorts. “Last person she’d suspect is you.”
“And are we seein’ each other suddenly? Are we a thing? When did we …” I swallow, struck by the concept of it. “… decide that?”
Bobby’s eyes cloud over. “Oh.” He forgets to whisper. “I … I just thought … uh, that we …”
“I mean, I want to be a thing, don’t get me wrong,” I quickly add, my tone softening. “I just meant—I mean, we never said we, uh …”
“So we are?” Bobby starts drumming his fingers on the table, his foot bouncing in place below. “We’re … like, whatever we are? A thing? Friends with benefits? Close buddies? Boy … friends …?”
“We are whatever we are,” I agree.
And I place a hand on his drumming fingers, stopping them.
The pair of us smile at each other, relieved somehow.
Fifteen minutes later—after a hasty breakfast of burnt toast and eggs we fry up ourselves in a big pan—Bobby and I take turns showering and throwing on some Sunday clothes fresh from my closet. When I go to help Bobby do his tie right, he blushes and gets awkward. Then he sighs at the way I always sag my dress slacks and yanks them right where they belong, which leaves us in a position of him having his arms around my waist, and me staring down into his eyes, like a high school slow dance frozen in place.
