“Shit,” she says. “My feet are killing me.”
I glance down and can see that her ankles are chubbier than normal, straining against her strappy sandals. “Too many hours on your feet.”
She inhales before exhaling through her nose and starting back up the stairs.
“You’re telling her tonight, right?”
“Get off my dick about it.” And then a second later, sheadds, “And yes. I’m telling her. As if it’s any of your business.”
In the last few weeks, Hattie’s body has really begun to show the evidence of her pregnancy. Last Tuesday I found her crying in the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror in a neon-green bra and her favorite denim shorts, her hair dripping wet. Her little stomach had popped out recently, making it impossible for her to button her shorts.
“At least you don’t have to deal with your period right now,” I said, trying to comfort her.
That just made her cry harder, which made no sense to me because our periods were always one step below a crime scene. (Thanks, Mom.)
Unsure what else to do, I snuck into her room, where Tyler was still sleeping, and retrieved a pair of gym shorts for her to change into.
Hattie would never say so out loud, but when things like that happen, I wonder if she wishes she could go back and make this decision over again. I would have understood, and no matter what Dad believes, he would have left the choice to Hattie. He said as much when she told him she was pregnant. But Hattie was insistent that she was keeping this baby. Even if she had wanted an abortion, we only have one clinic in the whole state and it’s all the way up in Jackson. Plus it’s a lot of money up-front. So I guess the logistics of that decision wouldn’t have been all that simple either.
Upstairs, our mom’s door is cracked open, smoke curling out the top.
“Mom?” Hattie calls as we let ourselves in.
“I burned the casserole,” she yells from behind a wall of smoke. “Don’t worry! I already ordered Chinese!”
Hattie coughs into the crook of her arm as I run around opening every window that isn’t broken.
“Y’all wanna eat down by the pool?” Mom asks.
I turn to Hattie, who I know is annoyed that she just walked all the way up here for nothing.
I shrug. “Yeah. Okay.”
Mom grabs a twenty from her purse and tucks her scraggly old cat, Wilson, under her arm. The three of us sit on the steps, waiting for the delivery guy.
When he finally arrives, we stake out one of the rusting patio tables. The pool is a cloudy, unusual shade of blue and the tiles trimming the edge are cracked and faded, like the rest of the property. Wilson sniffs around but stays within a few feet of our voices.
“Oh shoot,” Mom says. “I forgot plates. Y’all mind eating out of cartons?”
Neither of us answers, but just reach for the plastic silverware in the bottom of the bag. Wilson lies out on the concrete beside us, catching any bugs that dare buzz too close to his paws.
It’s business as usual as Mom drones on about the casino and all her friends there as if we know them. Hattie and I pass the orange chicken and beef and broccoli back and forth between mouthfuls of fried rice. At least the food is better than usual.
“Ramona’s been swimming at the Y a few times aweek,” says Hattie, practically sacrificing me on the conversational altar. “She’s getting real good.”
I fidget in my seat. “It’s something to do.” But I’m scared it might be more than that. I can feel my body getting stronger with each workout, and though I still can’t beat Freddie, he beats me by a little less every time.
“Well, girl, if you’re just looking for something to do, I can think of a million better ways to spend your time.” She smacks at my arms. “You don’t want to get too muscular either. Ladies weren’t built for that type of look.”
“I wouldn’t call Ramona a lady.” Hattie snickers.
I shrug off both of their comments and opt to keep the peace. “I go with my friend Freddie. He used to come round here every summer when we were little with his grandma, Agnes. They live in Eulogy now. A few blocks north of the train tracks.”
Mom slaps her knee. “I remember those two. I swear you and Freddie were the cutest little pair I’d ever seen.”
I purposely shovel too many pieces of orange chicken into my mouth, leaving myself unable to respond.
My mom puts her carton of shrimp lo mein down on the table. “So are you two... ya know, seeing each other?”
