3
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, my Volkswagen bakes in the Texas sun like one of Mama’s pecan pies. Heat rises from it in waves, but I can guarantee it won’t smell even half as good. I stop on the front porch when I see a white paper tucked inside one of Mama’s planters. No one in our neighborhood has been friendly since they found out who Daddy was about a month after we’d moved in. Since then we’ve received lovely messages like this occasionally. I consider just throwing it away, knowing from experience that I don’t want to see what it contains, but curiosity gets the better of me and I carefully unfold it.
It’s exactly the kind of message I was expecting.
People who support murderers don’t belong here. Get out of our neighborhood!
Shoving my sunglasses farther up my nose with a sigh, I toss the note in the trash can before speed-walking down my driveway and unlocking the car door. I take a deep breath and open it, stepping back so the wave of heat escaping from inside doesn’t blast me across the face.
Almost as if to spite my efforts, a wind hot as blazes kicks up like it came from the face of the sun itself. God, even the breezes in Texas can be hotter than hell. Instead of cooling me off, it makes sweat drip down the back of my neck.
I see my neighbor Mary walk out of her house three doors down, and I wave. She raises her hand automatically to wave back, but then recognizes me and quickly drops it back to her side when she sees her mother coming out after her. Mrs. Jones ushers her to her car, shaking her head and whispering in low tones the whole way. I can practically hear her clucking from here. Ducking my head, I ignore the sting of it and pretend not to care what they might be saying about me.
I watch them drive down the street as my car airs out a bit. It’s always like this. We’ve moved three times around Houston—new neighborhoods, new schools, new friends. The same three things always happen with the kids at school. First, they eventually find out about Daddy, and that alone weeds out the vast majority. The few who aren’t driven away by him being on death row are strangely obsessed with it. All they want to do is ask questions about what it’s like to have a father on death row. Which is weird, but at least I have someone to hang out with—until their parents find out and forbid them to see me or come to our house. That cuts out almost everyone.
Only two remained after that, Kali and Rebecca. They were the two who didn’t seem to care on any level about my dad—the two who felt like they were my friends just for me. That’s part of what made it so hard when my mom and I moved to the other side of town, away from Kali in seventh grade. She made new friends and we lost touch. Rebecca’s dad was in the army at Joint Base San Antonio, and then they were transferred to a base in South Dakota. I still get letters from her occasionally, but not often.
The neighbors usually went straight from finding out the truth to wanting us gone. Not all of them left nasty notes, but none of them were what I’d call friendly either.
Eventually I think I got tired of being rejected and started rejecting everyone else before they got a chance. Keeping people at a bit of a distance may be lonely sometimes, but it can also save a lot of heartbreak.
I punch the buttons to roll down all the windows simultaneously. I throw the blanket I keep over my seat into the back with a little more force than usual. When I climb in, I flip the visor down with a grunt to block the glare blinding me as it bounces off the hood of the car, forgetting for an instant about the old and warped photo of Daddy that I hide there. I catch it with gently cradled hands.
His face is so soft in the photo, so young. His eyes hold a touch of the recklessness he always says I got from him. His expression is now hardened by everything he’s gone through. I love Daddy as he is, but I can’t help but wish I’d known him when he looked like this. I shouldn’t have the photo outside of our house. Mama says the ones from when he was younger are the ones people are most likely to recognize. But I can’t bear to not have it close. I kiss the photo before slipping it back up behind the visor and starting the car.
Daddy’s upcoming appeal hearing is the reason I feel so anxious and worried lately. He’s also the reason I can’t stay shut up in our house for another minute. Ever since I was old enough to drive, I’ve made a practice of seeing what it’s like to be someone else on a regular basis. That’s the kind of distraction I need to keep my mind busy for the rest of today … and I think I know where to find it.