“So soon?”
“Once summer’s over, we won’t have as much time.” He pauses. “Ain’t getting cold feet already, are ya?”
I force a laugh. “With this weather? Don’t think that’s possible.” I jog the last few steps to him, wrap my arms ’round his waist, and press my lips firmly against his, willing passion like Blanche and Buck had last night to create a charge between us, to overwhelm me.
He kisses me back, his hands framing my face. A tingle courses up my spine and I press harder into him. I smile, leaning back to gaze into his safe eyes.
“What was that for?” he asks, his thumb rubbing circles on my cheek.
“Just a hello.” Just validation.
“Well, hello. And hey, how’s Buster?”
“Drugged up.”
Roy runs his hands down my arms, intertwines our fingers. “Before, when I said I could help you out, ya know, financially, I was serious.”
“Thanks, Roy.” I gesture toward our future house. “But I think you got your hands full here. She needs lots of work.” And I can handle my family on my own.
He studies my face, finally saying, “Well, I’m not afraid of a little work if you ain’t.”
“Not one bit.” But that’s a white lie, the okay kind to tell. Really, the house needs more than a fresh coat of paint. Termites have attacked nearly every inch of her, causing the porch to slump. The windows are cracked, the shingles—and the roof itself—are missing in spots, and huge chunks of brick are gone, leaving holes in the chimney. It’s no wonder Roy’s so quick to get his hands on her.
I sigh, turning it into a yawn when Roy notices. “Shall we get to work?”
Roy takes my hand and we do just that: get to work, heading to the hardware store for supplies. I walk the aisles aimlessly, randomly picking up thingamajigs and gadgets. I tap a wrench, or maybe it’s a screwdriver, against my palm while Roy adorably purses and twists and bites his lips while deliberating on what we’ll need. His face becomes grimmer, and sadly less adorable, each time he checks a price tag.
“Should’ve saved a few more pennies,” he says. “Maybe we can try our luck in the stock market.”
I rest my head against his shoulder. “Well, I don’t know a thing ’bout that, but I do know Mr. Miller has some of these tools down on his farm, and I bet ya we can borrow ’em.”
Roy’s chest rises slowly, giving away his concern, but he offers me a reassuring smile. “I bet you’re right.”
“You going to know what to do with these tools, once you got ’em?”
He gives me a pointed look.
“What?” I hold up my palms, smirk. “Remember that time you tried to make a birdhouse and—”
“The birds were fine.”
But he laughs right along with me.
We end up getting a few inexpensive items—a scraper thingy, sandpaper, and paintbrushes—for repainting the porch, an easy enough project to start with.
Roy heads home after that to get some sleep before he’s due back at the plant. I hurry home to change before hightailing it to the diner.
I’m off my bike before the brakes stop it fully, and toss it against the diner’s wall. Out of breath, and a few minutes late, I skid into the kitchen and snatch an apron.
“Bonnelyn,” Mr. Banks says from behind me.
I close my eyes, willing him to go easy on me for my tardiness.
“Bonnelyn, come and have a chat with me.”
I plaster an optimistic expression on my face. The way Mr. Banks arches a brow from the doorway of his office, I reckon my big smile and wide eyes look more crazy than positive. “Yes, sir,” I say, and he disappears inside.
I shake my head at myself as I follow him into the office and tentatively lower myself onto a simple wooden chair.
“Bonnelyn—”
“I’m sorry I’m late, sir.” In my lap, I bunch my skirt. “I swear, it won’t happen again.”
He runs a palm over his bald head. “We’re not sitting here ’cause of that. In the two years you’ve worked for me, I can count the number of times you’ve been late on one hand. The thing is, we’re slow. We’ve been slow. People are more interested in buying stocks than steaks.”
I nod, and that bowling ball in my gut seems like it’s doubled in size.
“Look, Bonnelyn, I cut your hours, but it ain’t helping my bottom line like it should, so”—he stops, starts—“it makes the most sense to let you go.”
It takes a moment for his cheek-slapping words to register. “Okay,” I finally say, even though it’s not. It’s not okay.
“Go on out and finish your shift. I won’t rob you of that.”
I stand, an instinct from being excused, and my legs shake underneath me.
Mr. Banks gives me a sorry look. “I always liked ya, kid. If things pick back up, I’ll track ya down.”
I offer him my thanks and stumble out into the kitchen, then the dining room. It’s exactly as Mr. Banks said: slow. Only a few regulars sit at the counter, and a single table is occupied by the windows.
My shift drags on ’til I’m clearing my last table and counting the few coins I made in tips. When I hang up my apron for the last time, my hand lingers, but not ’cause I’ll miss it here. It’s ’cause, plain and simple, this is necessary income, and there’s not enough time in the summer to find a new job. Plus, Mr. Banks always let me keep working a few hours here and there, even after the school year had begun. It’s harder to get that leniency in the nicer parts of Dallas.
The air in the diner seems too thin. I rush for the door.
But, on the way home, my mind keeps trying to steer me in scary directions: my family and I not even affording canned beans; Billie getting picked on for wearing rags my ma’s sewn countless times; Buster’s hand keeping him out of work all month. Losing the house. I tighten my grip on the handlebars.
Exhaustion hovers over me stronger than the August sun by the time I cross the tracks back into my measly town. It’s like God is taunting me with each run-down house I pass.
I get it, I want to yell. We’re poor. We’ll always be poor.
I round the corner, and Roy’s and my run-down house comes into view. Looking at it, all I see are dollar signs. I turn away, but a pop of yellow on the grayed porch pulls my gaze back.
Flowers, I realize when I’m close. I should be happy. But I ain’t. Roy’s heart is too big. He must’ve recognized the sadness I hid in my eyes earlier and picked me flowers, like when we were seven. I grab the note, expecting the soft loops of his cursive.
Nope. I’d recognize Blanche’s chicken-scratch handwriting anywhere.
I messed up, it says.
Ain’t that the truth.
Getting herself skunked, painting some boy red with lipstick, passing out and leaving me alone with him, then having the nerve to tell me I’m high and mighty.
What I am is levelheaded, a girl with a plan. I drop my hand to my side, taking Blanche’s note with it.