“How’s your Memaw?” Marla cupped his face in her hands and tugged him back so she could look at him, and his throat got all scratchy and he wanted so badly to tell her then, just lay it all out—T and the house takeover and Memaw in the bed and even what had happened last night, and what had come after.
But the moment passed and he shrugged, smiled, told her Memaw was fine, just fine, and he hoped she’d be in church this Sunday.
Truth be told, Devon wasn’t sure if she’d ever set foot in church again.
“Alrighty, then, but you tell her she’d best get to feelin’ right as rain or I’m bringing Doc over personally.”
He could imagine the look on Doc Kittredge’s face, on Marla’s and even Rev’s, if they stepped one toe inside the house. They’d wrinkle their nose at the smoke, step over pizza boxes to open the blinds, and then they’d see. See it all.
Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe if he said something they would come. Some days he thought even foster care might be better than this, even if no one would be around to take care of Mama’s memory garden and they’d put Memaw in some home and he’d never see her again. Never see anyone.
His ribs ached then, deep inside, and he didn’t know if it was from where T had shoved him or from the worry. No matter.
He forced a smile, waved the little envelope.
“I’ll tell her. See you later, Miss Marla,” he said, and then he was out the door with the other kids, heading for the bike rack.
Only today he’d timed it all wrong. And there was Marquis, standing smack in front of Devon’s bike with his arms crossed. Johnny and Big Ty were over near the clump of trees, and Devon saw Big Ty wrap his fingers tighter around something in his hands. A baseball bat.
A thin line of sweat trickled down Devon’s back.
“What do you want,” he muttered, head down as he tried to slip past Marquis to unlock his bike.
Marquis clamped a hand on the seat. “Where d’ya think you’re going?”
“Church.”
“Chuuuuuurch.” Marquis’s voice pitched higher, and he laughed at his own brand of humor.
“You should go, too. You need it,” Devon said before he could stop himself, but Marquis just glared.
“Shut up, Devon. Hey, whatcha got there?”
He snagged the little envelope before Devon could move, tore it open. A ten-dollar bill slid out.
“That’s for the collection plate!”
“Tell the church I said thanks.” Marquis jutted his chin. “You know the church gives to people in need. I’m in need of some lunch.”
Devon wanted to cry, wanted to punch him right in his stupid throat, but all he could do was stand there, frozen. Even his lungs felt frozen. Empty. Turn the other cheek. But sometimes it was so hard. And who was he kidding, anyway? He was no match for Marquis. Certainly no match for Johnny Vasquez and Big Ty.
“You pickin’ on people again, Marquis?” came a girl’s voice from behind, and he turned to see Shenise, Gabby, and Mariana. Shenise’s hands were on her hips, and she was staring Marquis down like she was a tiger and he was a snack.
“And?” Marquis stared back.
“Give him back his money.”
“What money?”
Shenise pursed her lips. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb.”
A loud whistle came from the front of the school, and they all turned. Marla was there, a silver whistle to her lips, and she held out a cell phone, looked at them pointedly.
“Just talking, Miss Marla.” Marquis held up his hands, slid sideways away from the bike rack, toward the clump of trees and his friends. He pressed the ten back into Devon’s hands, said in a growl to him, “You better not say anything.”
Gabby tugged at her friend’s arm, and Shenise moved, too, in the opposite direction.
“See ya, Devon,” she said.
