“Ya know,” she says, sauntering back into the kitchen, “Vivienne was a sweet girl, but she never came around the house. That girl was always in a hurry to be somewhere.”
“That’s because you always asked her too many questions,” calls Freddie over his shoulder.
I turn my head away from Freddie and cover my smile with my fist. I swell with pride a little too much at the fact that Agnes prefers me over Viv. And I’m thankful to her, too, for noticing the change between Freddie and me without making some big deal of it.
“What do you have to do tomorrow?” asks Freddie.
I turn back to him and rest my head on his shoulder, suddenly feeling much more comfortable with Agnes in the house. I’ve almost forgotten that my weekend is only halfway over. “I’m supposed to plan a baby shower for Hattie,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t even know where to start there.”
“Did someone say baby shower?” shouts Agnes from the kitchen, where she’s washing some of the china she swapped for in Biloxi.
“Yes, ma’am,” I call back to her.
She appears in the living room again, drying her soapy hands on her apron. “Oh, Ramona darling, if it’s not overstepping and if your mama doesn’t have any other plans, I’d love to help host a shower for Hattie here.”
I turn around in my seat and pop up on my knees. “Wait. Are you serious?” I shake my head. “And trust me. My mama doesn’t have any plans at all.”
She shrugs. “I don’t have any granddaughters—at least not ones I know of—and I’ve known you and Hattie since you were both just little bits.”
“That would mean so much,” I say. “To both of us! And it’d be a major help.”
“Well, good. It’s decided then.” She crosses her arms over her chest like she’s ready to get down to business. “Now, I think we can do some pink, but I really like the idea of doing different kinds of pastels.”
“I know Hattie likes lots of the baby stuff with stars and clouds on it. Oh! Or she said we could do a Mardi Gras–themed shower.”
“I like that idea quite a bit.” She nods. “Well, I think we’re gonna have to plan us a shopping trip.”
It’s not that I’m suddenly excited for Hattie’s shower, but I’m no longer dreading it, which is more than I thought was possible. After Agnes checks her calendar, we settle on a date.
I stay for dinner and Agnes makes too much spaghetti with Cajun sausage meatballs. After dinner, when I decide to head home, Agnes insists that Freddie take the truck and drive me home with my bike in the back and that I take home enough leftovers for everyone.
As we pull into the trailer park and the road turns into a path of rubble, I can hear a shouting match happening, which is nothing new, except the closer we get to my front door, the louder the shouting grows. We turn the corner in time to see Hattie throwing a potted plant on the hood of Tyler’s car just as he’s getting in the driver’s side. The ceramic pot shatters, leaving a dent.
“Oh, Christ.” I jump out of the passenger-side door and set the leftovers and my bag on the roof of the truck. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s going on here?”
“Mind your own business, little sis,” says Hattie. Her face is splotchy with anger and her finger is pointed right at Tyler. “How am I supposed to expect anything from you? How are we supposed to count on you?” she asks him. And theweshe speaks of does not include me. These are the questions I’ve been waiting for Hattie to ask for months, but now that she finally is, it’s strangely unsatisfying.
“I don’t want to be a maintenance guy for the rest of my life,” yells Tyler, his head sticking out the car window.
The door across the street creaks as Mrs. Pearlman joins the audience.
“And what else do you think you’re gonna do with your life? Huh, Tyler? You think you’re gonna go to some fancy college or become a famous bass player? You thinksomeone’s going to pay you to test video games all day or some bullshit? I don’t even think that’s a real job!”
She picks up another plant and hurls it at his windshield. I hear a crack but can’t tell if it’s the pot or the glass.
“Should we call the police?” Freddie whispers.
I shake my head. For a moment, I’d actually forgotten he was even here.
Maybe in other neighborhoods, people call the cops for stuff like this, but not here. In my neighborhood, this is just another night.
“You think I want to wait tables for the rest of my life?” asks Hattie.
“No one made you keep it,” Tyler retorts. “You chose this. And now you’re no better than your whore mom.”
I hear a lowohhhhamong the slowly growing crowd of onlookers.
