“Then you tell me what you heard your daddy say,” Annie says.
“What are you talking about?” Ryce looks again at the fellows he was sitting with. “You got to cover yourself over.”
“Tell me. Tell me what you heard.”
Ryce’s eyes drop down again, but this time they linger. He’s standing close enough Annie can feel the heat of his body and smell the dirt he didn’t bother washing from his hands before eating and the toothpaste he dribbled on his shirt this morning.
“Nothing, Annie. I didn’t hear nothing. You got to go.” Ryce reaches for her shoulder as if to send her on home, but as quick as he touches her, he yanks his hand away, making Annie wonder, though she knows better, if Ryce is feeling the same spark in the air she’s been feeling all these many days.
“Everything all right over there?” It’s Miss Watson again. She has hooked one arm through Abraham’s, and both are studying Annie and Ryce. “Ryce, you doing all right there?”
Annie starts to holler out again that she is doing fine but then realizes Miss Watson didn’t ask after Annie. She asked after Ryce. Miss Watson asked after Ryce as if he were in harm’s way.
“Just talking is all,” Ryce shouts. “You go on back to your lunch.”
“Your daddy is asking me all kinds of questions,” Annie says, watching Miss Watson watching her. “And he’s looking at me like I’m a liar when I answer them.”
Ryce leans in again. “You go on home,” he says. “I’ll come over tonight. We’ll talk then.”
“No, tell me now.”
“Ryce Fulkerson.” It’s Abraham this time. “Am I going to have to tell that girl’s daddy to be on the lookout for you?”
Abraham gives a shove to the fellow next to him. They laugh the way older fellows do when younger fellows are trying to get their legs.
“There’s always been a quarrel between the families,” Ryce says, probably already trying to fashion how he’ll explain all of this to Lizzy Morris. “That’s all. And it’s not what my daddy thinks. Just gossip. Folks talking.”
“What else is there, Ryce Fulkerson? You tell me.”
“Ryce, honey,” Miss Watson shouts again. “You get enough to eat? You want to come on over here and have some of Abe’s chicken?”
There she goes again, acting as if Ryce is the one with something to fear.
“Ain’t going to be the one to break your heart,” Ryce says, ignoring Miss Watson.
“You tell me right now. You tell me right now why your daddy would think such a damn fool thing as I would kill Mrs. Baine or I’ll kiss you full on the mouth right here in front of everyone, and what’ll Lizzy Morris think about that?”
Ryce’s face must be burning because it turns bright red. Those eyes of his start jumping around, looking up and down, left and right, like he doesn’t know where to let them settle.
“Your mama ain’t your mama.”
“So?”
“You already know that?”
Annie nods. Can’t say it out loud. Has never said it out loud. Maybe Annie is feeling the anger she’s feeling because Miss Watson is behaving as if Annie is a danger to Ryce, or maybe Annie really is a danger. Either way, she closes her hands into fists and braces herself for a fight.
“You’re halfway to sixteen now,” Ryce says, facing Annie. “Seems strange to some folks.”
“What’s so strange about that?”
The younger fellows have stood up and walked a few steps closer. Ryce turns, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a motion of any kind, but something in the way he looks at them is enough to make them drop down on the ground again and go back to eating their sandwiches and cherry tomatoes.
“Some folks think it’s evil when a girl like you turns of age. They believe you favor her . . . Juna Crowley . . . and that’s how old she was when folks most remember the trouble. Some are thinking you got Juna’s ways, and maybe you done something to Mrs. Baine. Think you’re taking revenge now that you’re of age.”
“Revenge for what?”
“Revenge for a Baine killing her.”
“A Baine killing who?”
“Juna. Your Aunt Juna . . . your mama.”
Jamming her balled-up fists into her waist so her elbows jut out to the side, Annie takes a giant forward step that nearly knocks Ryce from his feet.
“My Aunt Juna ain’t dead.”
“God damn it, Annie,” Ryce says, grabbing her by the arm. This time he doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls her close so he can whisper in her ear. His cotton undershirt is damp and still smells the slightest bit like bleach. “I can see your everything. You ought be wearing your underclothes. God damn, Annie. Everyone can see. I can see.”
Annie tries to pull away, but Ryce squeezes tight, doesn’t let go. He holds on so long and so tight her fingers start to tingle. His chest is warm and touches hers every time he inhales. Without looking down, she tugs at her blouse. The thin cotton peels off her skin.