to say.”
I took her scolding to heart. And made a mental note to never bring up Inny’s pregnancy again. But it did make me wonder. What else was going on with Inny? I sensed Dixie Jo’s worry ran deeper than her pregnancy. What was the rest of the story?
“Now. Is the trash out?” Dixie Jo asked, her voice returning to its normal pleasantness. “Is the ice-cream machine clean?”
“Yes.”
“Good. See you Thursday. Night, Stella.”
While pedaling to Carmina’s, I passed a lit-up convenience store with two cars in the parking lot. The Red Barn advertised gas, cigarettes, and hot sandwiches. My meals at the Sundown were discounted, but smelling frying onions and boiling chicken, mixed with the tang of human perspiration, for six straight hours was enough to halt my appetite at work. Now I was starving, and I propped my bike against a tree and rifled through my pocket, coming up with thirty dollars in tips. My blood sugar was so low, I would have willingly traded all my money for an ice-cold Coke.
I was halfway across the parking lot when I saw him. Trigger McClure leaned against the brick storefront, watching cars zip down the road with hawkish focus. One truck slowed and pulled into the lot. Trigger immediately straightened, staring at the truck greedily.
A man in ripped jeans slid out of the truck and ambled toward the Red Barn’s doors, paging through his wallet for cash. At that moment, Trigger detached himself from the wall and greeted the man in friendly tones.
“What’s it gonna take to get you to grab me a six-pack?” I heard Trigger say casually. “How’s a twenty sound? You keep the change.”
The guy uttered a throaty laugh. “Why not? I remember being your age. Sucks, don’t it?”
Trigger clapped him on the back, and passed over the twenty. “I owe you, man.”
“Just make us proud when you’re in the majors, you hear?”
I pulled back into the shadows, watching the scene play out. Minutes later, the man came out with two bags of groceries. He handed the six-pack to Trigger, and the two exchanged jokes that were too quiet for me to hear, other than the occasional boom of laughter. Soon after, the man left. Trigger climbed inside his own truck and stayed there. With his lights off, it was impossible to see what he was doing. But I had a pretty good guess.
It didn’t raise my opinion of him, but I shelved any remaining thought of Trigger. I didn’t want to think about him; I wanted an ice-cold drink, and to sit under an AC vent with my hair lifted so the artificial breeze would whisper over my neck.
Inside, I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the icebox and browsed the sandwiches in the deli case. While I was making my selection, the cashier, a woman with bleached hair and messy eyeliner, took off her apron and hollered into the back room.
“Theo!”
A scrawny, bespectacled kid who had a constellation of acne dotting his chin stuck his head out the door. “Right here, Mom.”
“I’m taking fifteen,” she told him, reaching for the cigarettes and lighter in her back pocket. She’d lit up and completed a full drag before the exit doors closed at her back.
“Can I help you?” Theo asked me brightly, his voice cracking with puberty.
I set my food—I’d decided on a ham and Swiss sandwich—on the counter and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Liar.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Fourteen. Are you gonna turn my mom in? I only work after nine when she’s on break. Fifteen minutes here and there. Can hardly be called breaking the law. Otherwise I just hang out in the back room and play video games.”
“I didn’t hear any video games.”
Theo looked ready to wet his pants. He glanced down and saw that his hands were shaking. Quickly, he folded his arms over his chest to hide his nervousness.
“What were you really doing in the back room?” I asked, thinking I already had a good idea. Assuming he had
I took her scolding to heart. And made a mental note to never bring up Inny’s pregnancy again. But it did make me wonder. What else was going on with Inny? I sensed Dixie Jo’s worry ran deeper than her pregnancy. What was the rest of the story?
“Now. Is the trash out?” Dixie Jo asked, her voice returning to its normal pleasantness. “Is the ice-cream machine clean?”
“Yes.”
“Good. See you Thursday. Night, Stella.”
While pedaling to Carmina’s, I passed a lit-up convenience store with two cars in the parking lot. The Red Barn advertised gas, cigarettes, and hot sandwiches. My meals at the Sundown were discounted, but smelling frying onions and boiling chicken, mixed with the tang of human perspiration, for six straight hours was enough to halt my appetite at work. Now I was starving, and I propped my bike against a tree and rifled through my pocket, coming up with thirty dollars in tips. My blood sugar was so low, I would have willingly traded all my money for an ice-cold Coke.
I was halfway across the parking lot when I saw him. Trigger McClure leaned against the brick storefront, watching cars zip down the road with hawkish focus. One truck slowed and pulled into the lot. Trigger immediately straightened, staring at the truck greedily.
A man in ripped jeans slid out of the truck and ambled toward the Red Barn’s doors, paging through his wallet for cash. At that moment, Trigger detached himself from the wall and greeted the man in friendly tones.
“What’s it gonna take to get you to grab me a six-pack?” I heard Trigger say casually. “How’s a twenty sound? You keep the change.”
The guy uttered a throaty laugh. “Why not? I remember being your age. Sucks, don’t it?”
Trigger clapped him on the back, and passed over the twenty. “I owe you, man.”
“Just make us proud when you’re in the majors, you hear?”
I pulled back into the shadows, watching the scene play out. Minutes later, the man came out with two bags of groceries. He handed the six-pack to Trigger, and the two exchanged jokes that were too quiet for me to hear, other than the occasional boom of laughter. Soon after, the man left. Trigger climbed inside his own truck and stayed there. With his lights off, it was impossible to see what he was doing. But I had a pretty good guess.
It didn’t raise my opinion of him, but I shelved any remaining thought of Trigger. I didn’t want to think about him; I wanted an ice-cold drink, and to sit under an AC vent with my hair lifted so the artificial breeze would whisper over my neck.
Inside, I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the icebox and browsed the sandwiches in the deli case. While I was making my selection, the cashier, a woman with bleached hair and messy eyeliner, took off her apron and hollered into the back room.
“Theo!”
A scrawny, bespectacled kid who had a constellation of acne dotting his chin stuck his head out the door. “Right here, Mom.”
“I’m taking fifteen,” she told him, reaching for the cigarettes and lighter in her back pocket. She’d lit up and completed a full drag before the exit doors closed at her back.
“Can I help you?” Theo asked me brightly, his voice cracking with puberty.
I set my food—I’d decided on a ham and Swiss sandwich—on the counter and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Liar.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Fourteen. Are you gonna turn my mom in? I only work after nine when she’s on break. Fifteen minutes here and there. Can hardly be called breaking the law. Otherwise I just hang out in the back room and play video games.”
“I didn’t hear any video games.”
Theo looked ready to wet his pants. He glanced down and saw that his hands were shaking. Quickly, he folded his arms over his chest to hide his nervousness.
“What were you really doing in the back room?” I asked, thinking I already had a good idea. Assuming he had
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