Rebel Without a Cake by Jacklyn Brady

kids.” He stood and stared down at me for a moment. “Good luck. Try not to run into the rougarou while you’re out there.”
    â€œFunny.” I got out of my chair, too, so he wouldn’t have the advantage of standing over me. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning then.”
    â€œOkay.”
    I thought he might say something else, but he turned and left without another word. We hadn’t patched up our differences entirely, but I had hope that we might eventually.
    I just hoped “eventually” wasn’t too far away.

Nine

    Miss Frankie was waiting with Bernice when I arrived to pick her up, which didn’t surprise me. The three of us loaded into the Mercedes with Bernice in the front so she could give me directions, and Miss Frankie in the back.
    We traveled a few miles on the freeway, but the rest of our trip was on a narrow two-lane road that wound back and forth over water and swampland. If there had ever been lane markings, they’d long ago disappeared. We were deep inside Terrebonne Parish surrounded by forest of pine, live oak dripping Spanish moss, and a few other trees I couldn’t identify. Thick undergrowth and squatty palmetto trees carpeted the forest floor.
    Every once in a while we passed a cypress swamp dotted with those otherworldly trees and nubby stumps, apparently called cypress knees, sticking up out of the water. Spots of civilization showed up now and then, but the people who lived out here seemed to like their privacy. Homes were usually solitary and far apart.
    Bernice and Miss Frankie kept themselves busy debating about almost everything under the sun. Bernice told us about her grandmother’s favorite remedy for a headache—cow dung and molasses rubbed on the temples—and Miss Frankie declared a deep and abiding gratitude for the man who invented aspirin. Then Bernice explained how her daddy had always been careful not to let his shadow fall on the water when he was fishing because it would bring bad luck, and Miss Frankie declared it wasn’t luck but common sense, so that the fish wouldn’t see a shadow on the water and swim away. They had gone on that way for a while, so I’d tuned them out and daydreamed about different designs for the Belle Lune cake.
    After nearly two hours, Bernice lunged up in her seat, straining against her seat belt. “We’re getting close now! Slow down. The speed limit is only twenty-five here in town and they’ll get you if you go over.”
    I put on the brakes and slowed to a near crawl, and a few seconds later the trees parted to reveal a small clapboard building. The sun had sunk low in the western horizon, but it was still light enough to see the uneven lettering on the sign: T-REX’S GENERAL STORE .
    If this was the “town,” it was little more than a wide spot on a very narrow road. Besides the general store, I saw a ramshackle gas station with two old-fashioned pumps, a bar called The Gator Pit with a faded sign I could barely read, and a single-wide trailer, home of the Baie Rebelle Church. The church parking lot was empty and the gas station was deserted, but a handful of cars were nosed up to the bar.
    A man wearing raggedy overalls, white rubber boots, and a dirty ball cap caught my eye. He was bent to look through the window of a white Ford Ranger and he waved his arm in sharp, angry gestures. My natural curiosity stirred, making me wonder who was in the truck and what had made Overall Man so angry. By the time we passed the bar, I’d come up with three different scenarios, all of which were probably way off the mark.
    â€œAunt Margaret’s house is probably ten minutes away,” Bernice said. “Just turn left here and follow this road until I tell you to stop.”
    She’d been giving me those same instructions for over an hour, but I really didn’t mind. The joy on her face as we drove through her home turf warmed my heart. If it