under my covers and fall asleep with a smile on my face. But I wake up two hours later with a frown. I can’t believe what I agreed to. Did I really say I’d go over to Jeremiah’s house?
Honestly, who makes calls at 7:00 a.m. on Sundays?
•••
It turns out that Jeremiah’s place is forty minutes from mine. He lives over in Bell Buckle, which is on the other side of Murfreesboro, where I’m going to college in August. Forty minutes seems like a long drive to see a guy I’m not that interested in seeing again, so I tell myself I’m going for the fried chicken.
I’ve actually never been to Bell Buckle before. It’s a super rural town that people drive through on their way from Chattanooga to Nashville. I discover there’s not much here except for a few gas stations and one of those massive fireworks stores. I’ve always worried about those. What if the whole place explodes at once? Would you see the mushroom cloud from space?
I turn down a bumpy country road, drive past Bell Buckle Chapel, and come upon a long line of cars. Mrs. Brown must have invited the entire church to her fried chicken fest.
I park beside a ditch and turn off the ignition. Clutching the steering wheel, I blow air out and gaze up at the brick façade. Thank God his house is nothing fancy—the shutters need painting and the sidewalk is crumbling. But the yard is neatly mowed and the tulips pop like Starbursts. Tomato plants and potted herbs are clustered at the edge of the yard.
As I approach the house, I can hear voices coming from the backyard. An old golden retriever with gray whiskers naps on the porch. I climb the steps and discover Jeremiah lounging on a swing with his leg propped up. I didn’t know he wore glasses—they make him look sort of rugged geeky. He’s drinking an iced tea and reading the comics page from the Sunday paper. A thick ace bandage is wrapped securely around his ankle; his other foot is bare. I’ve never seen his face so smooth before. Did he shave for church this morning?
Glancing up from his newspaper, he smiles at me and takes his glasses off, hooking them in the neck of his T-shirt. “Annie.”
He sets his tea and comics on a side table and makes a grab for his crutches.
“No, no, don’t get up,” I say, waving a hand. He leans back against the swing, all the while scanning my jean shorts and tee I changed into after work.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says, folding his arms behind his head.
“Well, you did say it would be a mistake to miss your mom’s fried chicken.”
He laughs. Then there’s a long silence. I squat to scratch the dog’s ears. Its collar reads Maggy . Her eyes blink open and she sniffs my flip-flops.
“Thank you for helping me with my foot yesterday,” Jeremiah says. “I would be a wreck next weekend if not for you.”
“What is this big race?” I ask.
“The Sparta Marathon reenactment over in Sparta. It attracts a lot of runners because sometimes people wear gladiator clothes. First prize is five thousand dollars.”
“Holy crap. Were you supposed to win or something?”
He waves a hand. “Nah. But I might could come in third or fourth, or win my age group. And there’s money in that. Five hundred or so. I make most of my cash at races. Matt doesn’t pay all that well.”
Then why does he want to work for his brother? Just to spend time with him?
“And this is how you make money?”
He smirks. “It’s better than working at McDonald’s.”
“But you’re hurt…” I look at his bandaged ankle.
“I’ll take care of my foot all week, and I’ll be just like new for the race. I run through injuries all the time.”
“You really just run for money?” I ask.
“I love it too,” he says. “I love any kind of rush…hang gliding, BASE jumping…” He pauses to take a slow sip of tea. A grimace flashes on his face, but I doubt it’s ’cause the tea is bitter. I can smell the sugar.
That’s when the screen door opens and
Honestly, who makes calls at 7:00 a.m. on Sundays?
•••
It turns out that Jeremiah’s place is forty minutes from mine. He lives over in Bell Buckle, which is on the other side of Murfreesboro, where I’m going to college in August. Forty minutes seems like a long drive to see a guy I’m not that interested in seeing again, so I tell myself I’m going for the fried chicken.
I’ve actually never been to Bell Buckle before. It’s a super rural town that people drive through on their way from Chattanooga to Nashville. I discover there’s not much here except for a few gas stations and one of those massive fireworks stores. I’ve always worried about those. What if the whole place explodes at once? Would you see the mushroom cloud from space?
I turn down a bumpy country road, drive past Bell Buckle Chapel, and come upon a long line of cars. Mrs. Brown must have invited the entire church to her fried chicken fest.
I park beside a ditch and turn off the ignition. Clutching the steering wheel, I blow air out and gaze up at the brick façade. Thank God his house is nothing fancy—the shutters need painting and the sidewalk is crumbling. But the yard is neatly mowed and the tulips pop like Starbursts. Tomato plants and potted herbs are clustered at the edge of the yard.
As I approach the house, I can hear voices coming from the backyard. An old golden retriever with gray whiskers naps on the porch. I climb the steps and discover Jeremiah lounging on a swing with his leg propped up. I didn’t know he wore glasses—they make him look sort of rugged geeky. He’s drinking an iced tea and reading the comics page from the Sunday paper. A thick ace bandage is wrapped securely around his ankle; his other foot is bare. I’ve never seen his face so smooth before. Did he shave for church this morning?
Glancing up from his newspaper, he smiles at me and takes his glasses off, hooking them in the neck of his T-shirt. “Annie.”
He sets his tea and comics on a side table and makes a grab for his crutches.
“No, no, don’t get up,” I say, waving a hand. He leans back against the swing, all the while scanning my jean shorts and tee I changed into after work.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says, folding his arms behind his head.
“Well, you did say it would be a mistake to miss your mom’s fried chicken.”
He laughs. Then there’s a long silence. I squat to scratch the dog’s ears. Its collar reads Maggy . Her eyes blink open and she sniffs my flip-flops.
“Thank you for helping me with my foot yesterday,” Jeremiah says. “I would be a wreck next weekend if not for you.”
“What is this big race?” I ask.
“The Sparta Marathon reenactment over in Sparta. It attracts a lot of runners because sometimes people wear gladiator clothes. First prize is five thousand dollars.”
“Holy crap. Were you supposed to win or something?”
He waves a hand. “Nah. But I might could come in third or fourth, or win my age group. And there’s money in that. Five hundred or so. I make most of my cash at races. Matt doesn’t pay all that well.”
Then why does he want to work for his brother? Just to spend time with him?
“And this is how you make money?”
He smirks. “It’s better than working at McDonald’s.”
“But you’re hurt…” I look at his bandaged ankle.
“I’ll take care of my foot all week, and I’ll be just like new for the race. I run through injuries all the time.”
“You really just run for money?” I ask.
“I love it too,” he says. “I love any kind of rush…hang gliding, BASE jumping…” He pauses to take a slow sip of tea. A grimace flashes on his face, but I doubt it’s ’cause the tea is bitter. I can smell the sugar.
That’s when the screen door opens and
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