you can’t handle that.”
“What does that mean?” Was he breaking up with me? I swore he was breaking up with me.
“It means I’ve got to get back to work before Mr. Brady catches me talking to you.” He climbed a couple of rungs on the ladder. “And you have to decide how you’re going to handle this. It’s not all about you. Not this time.”
“I...” what do you say to a guy who calls you jealous and naive and self-absorbed? I hoofed it to my truck and wrenched open the door. Halfway into my seat I found the words I was searching for. I leaned out the car and yelled, “Screw you, Connor Jacobs.”
W hat a jerk. An infuriating, mean jerk. Just a jerk. I reminded myself of this while I drove home. I refused to cry. Not anymore. My eyes landed on the plastic bead necklace hanging on my rearview mirror. Part of the tacky decorations at the spring formal. I recalled how Connor looped dozens of them around my neck and arms and legs. One ended up here, obviously intended to be a painful reminder of what a jerk he could be.
After parking, I checked the mail, but instead of walking to the mailbox, I ducked between the bushes that separated our yard and Ms. Frances’.
“Tonya,” I called from behind a wild azalea bush. “Tonya!”
I looked around Ms. Frances’ tidy yard but did not see her. The concrete front steps were a couple of feet away. I stared at the thick layers of red paint peeling off the steps, trying to decide what to do.
“Tonya,” I called one more time, to no avail. The weathered yard and house were in stark contrast to my own renovated home mere feet away. I pushed aside the awkward feeling I had about the obvious difference in our households and ran up the steps. At the top, I hesitated before marching over to the screened door, where I knocked lightly. Noise from a television filtered through the door and I knocked again, afraid my resolve would waver with each passing second. Just before I decided to leave, the front door opened and I came face to face with my neighbor with only the screen door between us. Warm air from inside wafted out, which seemed wrong since the temperature outside was unbearable. The smell of fried food assaulted my nose from somewhere deeper in the house.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said with a smile. “Well, come in. I’ve got food on the stove.”
She unlatched the screen from the inside and pushed it toward me. The springs creaked and I hesitated. Honestly, I was a little scared. No one knew I was here and what did I really know about Ms. Frances? My worries were cut off by the sound of her voice.
“You coming?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hurried inside, only stopping to close the door behind me. The house was dark inside but clean. The furniture old. The room was warm – stifling – and I realized that she probably didn’t have air conditioning.
“This way,” she said, disappearing through the living room and into a door I assumed was the kitchen. I passed photographs on the walls. Graduation pictures, babies, a black and a white wedding portrait hung prominently over the fireplace. Sure enough, once I entered the next room, Ms. Frances stood over a pan of boiling oil, dropping in pieces of flour-covered chicken. The faded yellow walls and a row of windows across the back of the room made the kitchen brighter than the rest of the house.
“I was wondering when you’d make it over here,” she said, turning a piece of chicken around in the pan, which made a sizzling sound.
“You know why I’m here?” I asked. This surprised me since I wasn’t exactly sure myself.
“Oh yes. I’ve been waiting.” She waved me into a seat at her kitchen table. “Took you longer than I thought.”
“I’m here about...” I searched for the right words.
“Tonya. My baby girl. I know.”
Ms. Frances bent over and opened the oven beneath the stove top. Heat rushed out and I could feel it across the room. She put her hand inside and pressed down on what I
“What does that mean?” Was he breaking up with me? I swore he was breaking up with me.
“It means I’ve got to get back to work before Mr. Brady catches me talking to you.” He climbed a couple of rungs on the ladder. “And you have to decide how you’re going to handle this. It’s not all about you. Not this time.”
“I...” what do you say to a guy who calls you jealous and naive and self-absorbed? I hoofed it to my truck and wrenched open the door. Halfway into my seat I found the words I was searching for. I leaned out the car and yelled, “Screw you, Connor Jacobs.”
W hat a jerk. An infuriating, mean jerk. Just a jerk. I reminded myself of this while I drove home. I refused to cry. Not anymore. My eyes landed on the plastic bead necklace hanging on my rearview mirror. Part of the tacky decorations at the spring formal. I recalled how Connor looped dozens of them around my neck and arms and legs. One ended up here, obviously intended to be a painful reminder of what a jerk he could be.
After parking, I checked the mail, but instead of walking to the mailbox, I ducked between the bushes that separated our yard and Ms. Frances’.
“Tonya,” I called from behind a wild azalea bush. “Tonya!”
I looked around Ms. Frances’ tidy yard but did not see her. The concrete front steps were a couple of feet away. I stared at the thick layers of red paint peeling off the steps, trying to decide what to do.
“Tonya,” I called one more time, to no avail. The weathered yard and house were in stark contrast to my own renovated home mere feet away. I pushed aside the awkward feeling I had about the obvious difference in our households and ran up the steps. At the top, I hesitated before marching over to the screened door, where I knocked lightly. Noise from a television filtered through the door and I knocked again, afraid my resolve would waver with each passing second. Just before I decided to leave, the front door opened and I came face to face with my neighbor with only the screen door between us. Warm air from inside wafted out, which seemed wrong since the temperature outside was unbearable. The smell of fried food assaulted my nose from somewhere deeper in the house.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said with a smile. “Well, come in. I’ve got food on the stove.”
She unlatched the screen from the inside and pushed it toward me. The springs creaked and I hesitated. Honestly, I was a little scared. No one knew I was here and what did I really know about Ms. Frances? My worries were cut off by the sound of her voice.
“You coming?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hurried inside, only stopping to close the door behind me. The house was dark inside but clean. The furniture old. The room was warm – stifling – and I realized that she probably didn’t have air conditioning.
“This way,” she said, disappearing through the living room and into a door I assumed was the kitchen. I passed photographs on the walls. Graduation pictures, babies, a black and a white wedding portrait hung prominently over the fireplace. Sure enough, once I entered the next room, Ms. Frances stood over a pan of boiling oil, dropping in pieces of flour-covered chicken. The faded yellow walls and a row of windows across the back of the room made the kitchen brighter than the rest of the house.
“I was wondering when you’d make it over here,” she said, turning a piece of chicken around in the pan, which made a sizzling sound.
“You know why I’m here?” I asked. This surprised me since I wasn’t exactly sure myself.
“Oh yes. I’ve been waiting.” She waved me into a seat at her kitchen table. “Took you longer than I thought.”
“I’m here about...” I searched for the right words.
“Tonya. My baby girl. I know.”
Ms. Frances bent over and opened the oven beneath the stove top. Heat rushed out and I could feel it across the room. She put her hand inside and pressed down on what I
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