She rubbed her stomach. Then she hit mango papaya.
“How come you’re here after school?” Marabelle asked as we shuffled down the hall with juice in hand.
“I meet with Mrs. Wentworth.”
“That counselor lady?”
“Yeah.”
“She gave me pamphlets about special schools. She was nice. Nicer than my mama was.”
“You didn’t want to go to one of those schools?”
“Baby’ll never be normal if he’s not mainstreamed.”
I smiled a little.
“Why’re you here so late?” I asked as we rounded the corner to the main hallway.
“I don’t have a license,” Marabelle said. “Other people have to drive us around.”
“You want a ride home?” My car was cooperating this week, happily parked in the side lot next to Cas’s.
“No, I don’t mind waiting.”
I pushed through the school’s front doors and stepped out into the September sun. Foster’s first C team practice would be ending momentarily.
And sure enough, there he was, tripping out from behind TS Middle, an enormous duffel slung over one shoulder. My father had a field day at the sporting goods store the night before.
He waved when he spotted me and picked up his pace to a loping sort of half run.
Marabelle had joined me on the school’s front steps and trailed me as I made my way down.
“I kicked, Dev!” Foster said, near breathless upon approach. “I kicked, and I ran sprints, and I caught the ball…” He was sweatier than I had ever seen him, red-cheeked and grinning. “Who’s that?”
“This is Marabelle. Uh, Marabelle, this is my cousin Foster.”
Marabelle gave Foster a slight smile. His grin faded, his eyes raking Marabelle’s midsection.
“We should get going,” I said. “See you later, Marabelle.”
“Uh-huh.” She waved a few fingers and then guided herself down onto the steps.
I started to go, but Foster hadn’t budged.
“Are you just going to sit there?” he asked.
“No.” Marabelle held up the mango papaya. “I’m going to drink juice, too.”
“All alone?” Foster looked concerned.
She patted her stomach. “I’m never alone.”
Foster looked back at me helplessly, and I cleared my throat. “Are you sure you don’t want a ride, Marabelle?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
I accepted it straight off, one, because she looked quite content, and two, because I don’t think Marabelle was capable of lying. But Foster still looked troubled.
“Come on,” I said, pulling the strap on his bag to guide him forward. “Let’s go.”
“Bye,” Foster said, stumbling as he looked back at Marabelle.
It was only when we reached the car that he spoke again. “How come she’s got a baby?”
“Well, she doesn’t have it yet, does she?”
“I mean, how come she’s pregnant?”
“How should I know? There’s lots of ways to get pregnant.”
“Do you think she wanted to?”
“Foster, nobody in high school wants to get pregnant.”
Foster craned his neck to look back at the front of the school as we pulled out onto the street.
“Where’s its dad?”
“Huh?”
“The baby’s dad.”
Marabelle had never said a word about him, and I had never dared to ask. “I don’t know.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
Whenever I saw her, she was always alone—aside from Baby, that is. “I don’t think so.”
“She’s pretty,” he said after a pause.
I glanced over at him. It was true, but still the last thing I expected to hear. “Yeah, she is.”
Foster didn’t reply.
8