Jaded by Varina Denman Page B

mint of his toothpaste. “You’re welcome.”
    I picked up the box as Dodd jogged past, diverting his gaze as though embarrassed to look our way.
    â€œIgnore me, then,” JohnScott called after him. “I’m hurt. I’m cut to the core.”
    Dodd pivoted, walking backward. “You’ll learn to live with the disappointment, J.S. Carry on.”
    The two coaches pushed through the door of the field house, leaving me perplexed. The Cunninghams had been in Trapp only two weeks, and already the preacher had a nickname for my cousin. It didn’t seem natural. JohnScott hadn’t been to church a day in his life. I’m not sure any of the Picketts had. Momma only ever went to church because Daddy led her there.
    I wandered toward the bleachers while the band’s warm-up tones bubbled across the field. Uncle Ansel and Aunt Velma were camped on the fifty-yard line, already settled into their folding bleacher seats. My aunt nestled under a quilt, and my uncle held an empty Dr Pepper can in which to spit tobacco juice, but my mood soured when I saw the Blaylocks right behind them. I wouldn’t have paid them any mind, but when I went to sit down by Velma, Neil’s boot perched on the edge of my seat.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said, keeping my eyes on his footwear.
    He waited a good five seconds before sliding his boot out of my way, and the gritty scrape rubbed my pride like sandstone rock against an open blister.
    Velma patted my knee as I sat. “Ruthie, you want to share my quilt?”
    â€œI’m all right. And I love the mum, Aunt Velma. Thank you.”
    â€œAw, it was nothing.” She waved her hand through the air as though swatting a horsefly. “Looks right nice on you, though.”
    Ansel didn’t speak, but he leaned forward and smiled. My uncle didn’t use many words to convey his thoughts, but I knew his smile meant Good to see you, sweetheart.
    I smiled back.
    Twenty minutes later, we rose to our feet while the band played the national anthem, and we remained standing for a prayer led by none other than Trapp’s new preacher. But he didn’t pray like a preacher at all. In fact, he sounded like he did any other time, citified and stuffy. I didn’t pay attention to the entire speech, but I heard him mention something about forgiveness. Strange. Most of the men prayed for safety and sportsmanship. Occasionally one of them would be so bold as to request a win. Forgiveness was something new.
    I put it out of my mind until I spotted Milla Cunningham headed toward our section of the bleachers. She climbed toward us, but I studied the field, assuming she would ignore me right along with the Blaylocks. No such luck.
    On the contrary, she slipped her arm around me and gave my shoulders a light squeeze. I instantly imagined a blaring megaphone instructing every fan to look my way and make note of the irony of the situation. “Hello again, Ruthie,” she said.
    Her hug startled me, and from Velma’s expression, I’d say it surprised her as well.
    â€œHello, Velma.” Milla reached across to grope my aunt’s hand and then focused her attention behind us.
    â€œThanks for saving me a seat, Neil.”
    â€œOh, sure, sure,” he said as he traded places with his wife so the women could sit together. Milla hugged both of them before sitting down, and I giggled under my breath. I hadn’t witnessed such a public display of affection since the rodeo dance last summer.
    Milla settled onto the bench. “Do you guys know Ruthie?”
    My back straightened, and my ears became high-powered radio antennae tuned to the most sensitive frequency.
    Neither of the Blaylocks replied, so Milla repeated herself. “Are you acquainted with Ruthie? I bet Fawn knew her in school.”
    After an endless silence, I peeked back.
    Neil studied the scoreboard as if he had never seen one in his life, and his wife dug frantically through