“Poor Andi.”
“I know, right?” Nicole says, standing. “Let me know what Nash says.”
I guess I’m doing this. “Will do.” I’m dreading it already.
4
Isabelle
Pushing open the front doors,I watch as our kiddos line up to step onto the bus that will take them home. I hated taking the bus. I did it until my junior year in high school when my dad got me an old Dodge Ram pickup. It had two hundred thousand miles on it, and it was rusted clear through in several spots, but I loved it.I hung pink, furry dice from the mirror and glammed it up with pink and purple accessories. The inside was in good shape, especially after I made a seat cover out of an old thrift store quilt I found in Des Moines. I loved that truck. It died a tragic death after I went off to college. Dad claims it was an accident, the blast from Isaac’s shotgun right into the engine. I know better. It was like he was putting it down.
Searching the front of the school for Andi, I spot her sitting on the grass to my right, next to the front steps. “Hey, Andi,” I say as I approach her.
“Hi, Miss Harmon.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Waitin’ on Daddy to pick me up.”
“No bus today?”
“Nah, Daddy brings me and picks me up. Mostly.”
Mostly? What does that mean? “Mind if I sit with you?”
She eyes me warily. “Why?”
“I wanted to say hello to your dad.”
“You know my dad?”
“Do you know Isaac?”
“Yeah?” She smiles brightly. “He’s my godfather. And he’s funny.”
“Well, Isaac’s my big brother.”
Her eyes grow double the size. “Really? I didn’t know he had a sister.”
Uh-huh. I don’t know why, but that hurts a little. “Well, he does. I’m two years younger.”
I’ve said the right thing. She pats the grass next to her and says, somewhat energetically, “You can wait with me. He might be late.”
“Why’s that?”
“Truck was givin’ him fits this morning.”
“Oh, I see. I can drive you if you need a ride.”
“Nah. He’ll be here.”
So, we wait. And wait. The busses have all gone, and a few of them have returned to the bus barn by the time Nash Watson pulls into the school parking lot. His truck does look a little worse for wear. Not as bad as my old Dodge, but close. “There he is,” she says, standing. “Thanks for waitin’.”
She picks up her backpack and walks toward the sidewalk. I step with her, which causes her to look up at me. “He’s here.”
“I know. I want to say hi.”
Andi rolls her eyes. “He ain’t gonna date you.”
