answers. If he doesn’t, I really don’t want to know what that means.
Chapter Eight
Saturday spills into my room at the edges of the curtains as I slip into the waking world. I sit up and stretch, trying to remember whether any nightmares had come to me last night, but it feels as though a black veil has fallen in my mind, and I can’t pull it aside, so I content myself with the idea that I must not have dreamed.
From downstairs, I hear the drone of voices. At first I think the television is on, but the longer I listen, the more I recognize Jimmie’s voice. I try to make out the words and whom he’s speaking to but I can’t, and so I go to the window and peer out, hoping I’ll recognize the vehicle.
It’s a police car.
My stomach gives a nervous jump, and I head to the closet, grabbing the first sweater and jeans I find then I slink downstairs, hoping to catch at least the tail end of the conversation, but Jimmie stands at the front door where he has just seen a police officer out.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He rakes his fingers through his hair and looks away.
“Why were the cops here?”
“No reason.” He walks toward me and takes my arm, guiding me toward the kitchen. “How about some breakfast? I’m starved.” He looks straight ahead, never at me, one way I can tell he’s lying.
“Tell me.” I plant my feet and pull away.
For a moment his gaze locks with mine, and behind the tough exterior, I see a panic rising, which means whatever has happened has to do with me. Jimmy rarely panics about anything else.
“Somebody grafittied the garage door,” he admits. As I start to go outside to see, he grabs at my arm. “Stay in the house. I’ll paint it this afternoon.”
“I want to see.”
“You’re not going out there. Period.” He walks to the front door to peer out where the cop is taking pictures.
“Why? It’s about me, isn’t it?” I stride toward him. “Jimmie, it’s been this way in lots of places. I’ve gotten used to it. I never fit in in either world, and that’s not going to change.” I grab the doorknob to go outside, but his hand stops me.
“This isn’t just about fitting in, Lizzie. Just take my word.” His blue eyes beg, and the solid-as-a-rock Jimmy disappears.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just let it go!” he snaps, releasing my hand and pacing the room.
“I can’t.” I rush to the door and slip outside before Jimmie can stop me. The cop, who has just put the camera away, looks up, probably expecting Jimmie.
“Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Hi.” I step up to the garage and see the words “Half Breed” scrawled in red paint across the door in letters two feet tall. I take a step back, though I’m not really surprised by it. It’s the same writing, I note, as on the locker mirror, and I cringe.
“Do you have any idea who would do this?”
“No.” I think about telling him about the locker, but I’m sure that Jimmy has already done that. He’s never really been one to let me speak for myself. I know he means well, but sometimes it just makes me crazy.
I head inside and see Jimmie perched on the edge of the sofa, cigarette in hand. He’s lost in thought and doesn’t even hear me come in.
“I thought you quit.” I drop into the recliner.
He grins halfheartedly. “I did.” Smoke wafts around him, and his taut posture and somber expression remind me of a pianist in a jazz club. His bloodshot eyes dart toward me.
“Jimmie, that wasn’t so bad. It’s probably just a prank like my locker.”
“Maybe.” He takes a long drag from the cigarette and stubs it out. “Then again, just before your dad disappeared, someone painted words on his house, too. “Red trash.” I never wanted to tell you that because I hoped we’d never come back here.” He shakes his head.
“It’s just a
Chapter Eight
Saturday spills into my room at the edges of the curtains as I slip into the waking world. I sit up and stretch, trying to remember whether any nightmares had come to me last night, but it feels as though a black veil has fallen in my mind, and I can’t pull it aside, so I content myself with the idea that I must not have dreamed.
From downstairs, I hear the drone of voices. At first I think the television is on, but the longer I listen, the more I recognize Jimmie’s voice. I try to make out the words and whom he’s speaking to but I can’t, and so I go to the window and peer out, hoping I’ll recognize the vehicle.
It’s a police car.
My stomach gives a nervous jump, and I head to the closet, grabbing the first sweater and jeans I find then I slink downstairs, hoping to catch at least the tail end of the conversation, but Jimmie stands at the front door where he has just seen a police officer out.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” He rakes his fingers through his hair and looks away.
“Why were the cops here?”
“No reason.” He walks toward me and takes my arm, guiding me toward the kitchen. “How about some breakfast? I’m starved.” He looks straight ahead, never at me, one way I can tell he’s lying.
“Tell me.” I plant my feet and pull away.
For a moment his gaze locks with mine, and behind the tough exterior, I see a panic rising, which means whatever has happened has to do with me. Jimmy rarely panics about anything else.
“Somebody grafittied the garage door,” he admits. As I start to go outside to see, he grabs at my arm. “Stay in the house. I’ll paint it this afternoon.”
“I want to see.”
“You’re not going out there. Period.” He walks to the front door to peer out where the cop is taking pictures.
“Why? It’s about me, isn’t it?” I stride toward him. “Jimmie, it’s been this way in lots of places. I’ve gotten used to it. I never fit in in either world, and that’s not going to change.” I grab the doorknob to go outside, but his hand stops me.
“This isn’t just about fitting in, Lizzie. Just take my word.” His blue eyes beg, and the solid-as-a-rock Jimmy disappears.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just let it go!” he snaps, releasing my hand and pacing the room.
“I can’t.” I rush to the door and slip outside before Jimmie can stop me. The cop, who has just put the camera away, looks up, probably expecting Jimmie.
“Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Hi.” I step up to the garage and see the words “Half Breed” scrawled in red paint across the door in letters two feet tall. I take a step back, though I’m not really surprised by it. It’s the same writing, I note, as on the locker mirror, and I cringe.
“Do you have any idea who would do this?”
“No.” I think about telling him about the locker, but I’m sure that Jimmy has already done that. He’s never really been one to let me speak for myself. I know he means well, but sometimes it just makes me crazy.
I head inside and see Jimmie perched on the edge of the sofa, cigarette in hand. He’s lost in thought and doesn’t even hear me come in.
“I thought you quit.” I drop into the recliner.
He grins halfheartedly. “I did.” Smoke wafts around him, and his taut posture and somber expression remind me of a pianist in a jazz club. His bloodshot eyes dart toward me.
“Jimmie, that wasn’t so bad. It’s probably just a prank like my locker.”
“Maybe.” He takes a long drag from the cigarette and stubs it out. “Then again, just before your dad disappeared, someone painted words on his house, too. “Red trash.” I never wanted to tell you that because I hoped we’d never come back here.” He shakes his head.
“It’s just a
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