he had eaten a hundred times before, maybe even a thousand.
The one he’d always liked until this morning.
“I stil don’t see that fork movin’.” Though Mrs.
Lincoln’s fork was operating at lightning speed. Her hands flashed back and forth over the biscuits like she was trying out for captain of the clean plate club.
“I’m not that hungry, Mom. I think I caught a stomach bug or somethin’.” Link mustered up the most pathetic expression he could manage. It was the same one he gave his teachers when he didn’t finish his assignments. They’d seen it so many times that it had stopped working back around fifth grade.
His mother’s eyes narrowed, her fork hovering above her plate. “The only bug you’ve ever had was a bad case a head lice from playin’ with Jimmy Weeks, after I told you he wasn’t our kinda people.”
It was true. Link never got sick, and his mom knew that better than anyone. “If this is your way a tel in’ me that you don’t care for my biscuits ’n’ gravy, then cook your own breakfast from now on. You hear me, Wesley?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Link scooped up a bite with his good arm—the one that wasn’t in a sling—but he couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He stared at the white gravy. It looked harmless enough. But it smel ed like a heart-stopping mix of old aluminum, dirt, rancid butter, and, worst of al , his mom’s fingernails. He’d rather eat Jimmy Weeks’ lice.
“Martha, leave the boy alone. Maybe he real y is under the weather,” Link’s dad said between bites.
Big mistake.
Mrs. Lincoln dropped her fork on the edge of her china plate with a clatter.
“Excuse me? Did you say somethin’, Clayton?
Because I thought I heard you underminin’ my authority while you’re sittin’ there eatin’ the breakfast I cooked for you.”
Link’s dad swal owed hard. “I was just sayin’—”
“I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything at al ,” she snapped.
Mr. Lincoln knew when he wasn’t going to win a battle. He’d given up and started waving the white flag at his wife as soon as their son was born.
“Not a word,” Mrs. Lincoln repeated.
“I expect I can do that.” Mr. Lincoln sighed at his
“I expect I can do that.” Mr. Lincoln sighed at his fork.
Link’s mom picked out the crispiest pieces of bacon from the serving platter and turned her attention back to Link, who had been pushing the food around on his plate while she wasn’t looking.
“Now that you mention it, you’ve been actin’ peculiar ever since you came home last night.”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Mention it.”
“Don’t you sass me. I was the one who said spending time with questionable folks only gets you a big fat question mark next to your own name.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Link stared down at the pile of white slush. His mom was no Amma in the kitchen. Amma would no more sit down to a plate of Mrs. Lincoln’s biscuits ’n’ gravy than she would bring home store-bought biscuits.
“Aren’t I always sayin’ that, dear?” She turned to Link’s dad, but she didn’t give him a second to respond. “I’m here to tel you, there’s no question mark by my good name. The Lincolns have kept the family name spit shine around these parts for generations.”
Link looked up in time to see gravy dribbling down his mother’s chin. His stomach lurched. He shoved his chair back from the table, then sprinted out of the room and up the stairs.
“Wesley Lincoln!” she cal ed after him.
“Mom, I think I’m gonna be—”
The sound of dry heaving floated down the stairs.
Link’s parents looked at each other. “That boy probably caught some kinda nasty virus,” Mrs.
Lincoln said. “I’m gonna cal over to Doc Asher’s and see if he can squeeze Wesley in today.”
Mr. Lincoln put down his fork, hesitating. But I guess al the browbeating had taken its tol , and he couldn’t resist. “Maybe it was somethin’ he ate.”
The
The one he’d always liked until this morning.
“I stil don’t see that fork movin’.” Though Mrs.
Lincoln’s fork was operating at lightning speed. Her hands flashed back and forth over the biscuits like she was trying out for captain of the clean plate club.
“I’m not that hungry, Mom. I think I caught a stomach bug or somethin’.” Link mustered up the most pathetic expression he could manage. It was the same one he gave his teachers when he didn’t finish his assignments. They’d seen it so many times that it had stopped working back around fifth grade.
His mother’s eyes narrowed, her fork hovering above her plate. “The only bug you’ve ever had was a bad case a head lice from playin’ with Jimmy Weeks, after I told you he wasn’t our kinda people.”
It was true. Link never got sick, and his mom knew that better than anyone. “If this is your way a tel in’ me that you don’t care for my biscuits ’n’ gravy, then cook your own breakfast from now on. You hear me, Wesley?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Link scooped up a bite with his good arm—the one that wasn’t in a sling—but he couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He stared at the white gravy. It looked harmless enough. But it smel ed like a heart-stopping mix of old aluminum, dirt, rancid butter, and, worst of al , his mom’s fingernails. He’d rather eat Jimmy Weeks’ lice.
“Martha, leave the boy alone. Maybe he real y is under the weather,” Link’s dad said between bites.
Big mistake.
Mrs. Lincoln dropped her fork on the edge of her china plate with a clatter.
“Excuse me? Did you say somethin’, Clayton?
Because I thought I heard you underminin’ my authority while you’re sittin’ there eatin’ the breakfast I cooked for you.”
Link’s dad swal owed hard. “I was just sayin’—”
“I think it would be best if you didn’t say anything at al ,” she snapped.
Mr. Lincoln knew when he wasn’t going to win a battle. He’d given up and started waving the white flag at his wife as soon as their son was born.
“Not a word,” Mrs. Lincoln repeated.
“I expect I can do that.” Mr. Lincoln sighed at his
“I expect I can do that.” Mr. Lincoln sighed at his fork.
Link’s mom picked out the crispiest pieces of bacon from the serving platter and turned her attention back to Link, who had been pushing the food around on his plate while she wasn’t looking.
“Now that you mention it, you’ve been actin’ peculiar ever since you came home last night.”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Mention it.”
“Don’t you sass me. I was the one who said spending time with questionable folks only gets you a big fat question mark next to your own name.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Link stared down at the pile of white slush. His mom was no Amma in the kitchen. Amma would no more sit down to a plate of Mrs. Lincoln’s biscuits ’n’ gravy than she would bring home store-bought biscuits.
“Aren’t I always sayin’ that, dear?” She turned to Link’s dad, but she didn’t give him a second to respond. “I’m here to tel you, there’s no question mark by my good name. The Lincolns have kept the family name spit shine around these parts for generations.”
Link looked up in time to see gravy dribbling down his mother’s chin. His stomach lurched. He shoved his chair back from the table, then sprinted out of the room and up the stairs.
“Wesley Lincoln!” she cal ed after him.
“Mom, I think I’m gonna be—”
The sound of dry heaving floated down the stairs.
Link’s parents looked at each other. “That boy probably caught some kinda nasty virus,” Mrs.
Lincoln said. “I’m gonna cal over to Doc Asher’s and see if he can squeeze Wesley in today.”
Mr. Lincoln put down his fork, hesitating. But I guess al the browbeating had taken its tol , and he couldn’t resist. “Maybe it was somethin’ he ate.”
The
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