“Well?”
Her eyes try to dart away from mine until I catch them.
“It went about as best as it can go for two people who haven’t seen each other in a while I guess.”
“Sounds like she ain’t play nice. Want me to go have a talk with her?”
Her upper lip curls and her dimples deepen before she sighs. “Don’t be annoying this early in the morning.”
“Don’t be making me get mad at Faye for getting onto you about leaving my house dirty.”
She smiles bigger. “Oh, so you have a conscience,liar?”
“Nah. I think you need a heart for that. Tin men don’t have hearts. I don’t care what The Wiz said. That nigga was a fraud.”
“Okay, Aunt Faye definitely made me watch that one when I was little.” She laughs. “I still have to Google the Myra Monkeyford reference, though.”
“MyraMonkhouse. The show isFamily Matters, Slim.” I shake my head, grabbing one of her Honey Buns and tearing it open.
I take a bite.
The fake sugar makes my teeth ache and face ball up.
She giggles.
“Hm…” I push it toward her, swallowing the overly sweet bread. “Shit tastes even nastier than I remember.”
She rolls her eyes and snatches it from my hand, folding down the torn plastic. “You’re supposed to heat it up in the microwave first. Stop wasting my snacks.”
“Heat it up? Oh, you a bayou baby, fasho.”
“Never said I wasn’t. I was born at Graves Memorial just like you probably were.” Her eyes graze my arm and dance across the first and only dumb tattoo I got when I was thirteen after surviving my first sparring session with Senior and Smitty—Bayou Boy. Senior said that’s what we were before we were ever “fighters” or social pariahs.
Donovan leans against the counter while my measly $40.50 total flashes across the customer display.
“You wanna take care of the tabs while you’re in here?” he asks.
I look down at Slim. “You wanna take care of the tabs?”
She shrugs then nods her head.
Donovan laughs at the easy way she agrees. “Do you even know what he’s talking about?”
“No, but it sounds more interesting than being early to clean a hoarder’s house.”
Donovan reaches below the counter and slaps Lucky’s old three-spiral notebook on top of it. “I told Pops I can move this into an Excel sheet, but he won’t listen.”
“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, D.”
“But you can’t back up paper.” He flings open the notebook, flipping through the pages. “If anything happens to this thing, so many folks will be off the hook.”
I laugh. “Nah…Lucky’s an old-school cat. They never forget who owes ‘em.”
He pushes the notebook my way, and Slim eyes me while I pull out the rest of the money in my pocket and sit it on the counter.
I crook my finger. “Come pay our tithes.”
“You pay tithes in church—not a dingy gas station.” She wrinkles her nose at Donovan. “No offense.”
