“Hands off,” another girl whispers. “He’s dating Hattie’s sister. First girls. Now black boys. She must be really trying to give their poor daddy a heart attack.”
Okay. That’s it. I stand, whirling around, and open my mouth to say something, but Hattie beats me to it. “Gretchen,” she says. “MaryLou, I know y’all are just here to check out the class slut. I get it. Someone had to get knocked up first, but y’all can just leave your presents on the gift table and take your backwards attitudes out of here. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.”
The girls stand there in their pastel dresses, shock registering on their spray-tanned faces.
“And those party favors at the door are foractualguests,” I say, slinging my arm over Hattie’s shoulder.
We both watch as they leave with their purses and plates of finger food in hand.
“You’re good people,” I tell Hattie, feeling an extra rush of warmth for my sister.
“I know we are,” she says as we sit back down.
“Okay, people!” Agnes claps her hands together. “Let’s dig into these presents!” While everyone gets situated, she pulls an ottoman up next to Hattie and hands me a pen and a notebook. “You write down who gave what for thank-you cards,” she whispers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hattie opens each present with care, like she’s trying to savor every single moment, and I’m diligent in writing down every name and gift. I don’t think either of us have ever opened this many presents at once in our entire lives. I underestimated how much people lose their shit for babies.
Dad’s boss’s wife even brought one of those special trash cans for diapers. And Agnes’s present was a baby swing that can sit on a table. Saul and Ruth’s gift is an array of things both practical and nonsensical, but my favorite is a neon-green onesie that saysPizza Rolls, Not Gender Roles. And Freddie very thoughtfully gifts a little pink-and-green swimsuit with a matching hat and an inflatable float with a canopy over it. There are also lots of diapers and pink frilly onesies and handmade blankets and burp cloths and a few gift cards too.
Freddie hovers in the kitchen, and I can feel his gaze onme while I watch Ruth and Saul polish off the rest of the mimosas on the drinks table. It would be so easy to turn and give him a quick grin to let him know we’re fine and that everything’s okay, but as the day progresses, even a gesture that small feels like a promise I can’t keep.
When Hattie gets to my present—a big teal bag with pink-and-white-striped tissue paper—I hold my breath. I hadn’t realized how nervous I was for her to actually open it.
“There’s no card,” she says, and then again a little louder, “There’s no card in this one.”
“It’s from me,” I say.
She bounces her shoulders with excitement. “Better be good, Ramona Blue.”
Hattie pulls the paper from the bag a little too roughly, and I have to stop myself from telling her to be more careful.
When she looks down into the bag, her expression is puzzled, but she pulls the gift out by a string.
Finally, I reach in and help her adjust it so that the whole thing hangs properly. “The mobile,” I say. “The one with clouds and stars that you saw at the baby store.”
“Oh, Ro,” she says. “It’s so thoughtful.” Her cheeks burn pink and she smiles so hard her eyes squint.
I shrug. “There’s more.”
On the bottom of the bag, folded in fours, is a piece of paper. The room grows quiet as she unfolds it and reads to herself.
She looks to me, her jaw slack, and then back to the paper.
“Well,” says Saul, “you gonna tell us what it is or what?”
She blinks and a fat tear rolls down her cheek. “It’s a crib. Ramona got us a crib.”
My sister yanks me by the arm and pulls me into the recliner with her. “How did you even afford this?” she whispers.
I hug her back but am careful not to squish her belly. “I’ve been saving, I guess.”
I got the crib on sale, and still, it was a nice chunk of change. But the saleswoman says it converts into a bed and that the baby can use it until they’re five or six. If I’m being honest, I don’t even know where there is room in the trailer for it, but we’ll deal with that when the baby comes. I don’t know. But a baby needs a crib. My niece needs a crib.
The doorbell buzzes for a long moment, like someone’s holding their finger down on it.
“I got it,” calls Freddie.
