A Sliver of Sun (12 page)

The noise stopped a few seconds later, and the girl turned around and took off her goggles. I sucked in a breath.

I couldn’t believe it.

Angela!

I nudged Ginger with my elbow. “Guess who?” I said, without moving my lips.

Ginger spun toward the girl, and her face paled.

Angela looked real surprised for a second too, then she smiled all friendly like. “Hey, Piper Lee. Hey, Ginger.” She came out from behind the counter and bounced over to us. “How are you doing? Is this your dad?”

Ginger stared back at her, stunned. “Uh … yeah.”

Ben looked between the three of us. “Y’all know each other?”

Angela bobbed her head and held out her hand to Ben. “I’m Angela. We’re all in the same class at school.”

Ben reached out his hand and said, “Hey, there.”

The man behind the counter headed our direction. “Somethin’ I can help you folks with today?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben said. “Need some quotes on plywood and 2x4’s.”

“Sure thing. Come on up to the counter.” He ran a hand down Angela’s hair. “Get busy stacking that fertilizer, darlin’, and be sure to sweep up good around there after.”

Angela bobbed her head, all sugar and sweetness. But as soon as the adults walked away, her smile turned into more of a sneer. “My uncle owns this store. He pays me to work here on weekends, and sometimes afterschool too.” She craned her neck toward Ginger. “And talking about school, how’s our book report going?”

“G-g-good,” Ginger stammered. “Fine.”

Angela grinned like she’d just heard a great joke, and right then is when I lost any doubt Ginger had been telling the truth about her. “Well, guess I better get back to work.” She paused long enough to give us a sly look. “Oh, and sorry if you wanted popcorn. We’re fresh out for today.”

I bristled.

Ginger looked like she wanted to cry. She crept over and stood next to Ben, who was pouring over the numbers Mr. Griffon tapped into his calculator.

I followed her up to the counter and nudged her with my elbow. “Come on, we can still get gumballs. I brought quarters.”

The gumball machine was in the shape of a Mickey Mouse head and loaded with hundreds of brightly colored balls. I stuck a quarter in and cranked the knob, and a bright purple gumball dropped into my hand. “Mmm, grape,” I said, handing Ginger a coin. “See what you get.”

“I really hate her,” she whispered, taking the quarter.

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

Ginger twisted the knob and got a hot pink gumball. She popped it in her mouth and her cheek pouched out like a chipmunk. She looked surprised when I handed her another quarter. “Go ahead,” I said. “I brought four. That way we can each keep one for later.”

I pointed to a black gumball nestled up near the glass. “Looky there, I’ve never seen a black one. Must be licorice.” I was sorely tempted to shake the machine to see if I could make the black one drop down near the opening, but figured I better not with Ben and Mr. Griffon standing so close. I ended up with a yellow one instead. Ginger’s was white with pink speckles.

Ben stepped up behind us. “I’m gonna pull the truck around back,” he said. “You kids wait in here.”

Ginger tensed up a little as he and Mr. Griffon walked out the door. She glanced over her shoulder.

Angela was stacking little bags of fertilizer below a shelf of ceramic garden pots. She gave us a snotty look. “Uncle Griffon lets me get gumballs outta there whenever I want. I don’t have to pay for them.”

I took a closer look at the Mickey Mouse head. “How’s it open?”

Angela snorted. “You think I’d tell you?”

I started toward her, but Ginger put a hand on my arm. “Leave her be, Piper Lee. She might do somethin’ to you.”

“Just let her try,” I said, and pushed her hand away. I walked over to Angela. “So how much does your uncle pay you to work here?”

“Six dollars an hour. Plus all the gum and popcorn I want. Bet you wish you had a job.”

I chomped down on my gumball and got a fresh spurt of grape. “How do you know I don’t?”

“Do you?”

“No. But if I did, it sure wouldn’t be handlin’ cow poop.”

She scowled. “I don’t handle cow poop.”

I gestured toward the pile of bags containing
Walt’s Best—premium, organic fertilizer.
Flopped sideways and drooping, they looked like they were about to bust their seams. “What do you think fertilizer’s made of?”

“Dirt.”

“Soil’s dirt. Fertilizer’s cow poop.”

Angela glared at me for a few heartbeats, before breaking into a sweet smile. “Well,” she said, “guess if anybody knows about cow poop it’d be a Southern hick like you.”

Heat burned my neck and rushed right up to the tip of my ears. The jangle of the door bell is the only thing that kept me from slapping her right then and there. All three of us turned to see Ben and Mr. Griffon come back inside. The phone rang.

“Hey, Angela,” her uncle called. “Come grab the phone so I can ring up Mr. Hutchings.”

“Okay, coming,” she said. She turned her nose up and brushed past me.

Ginger gave me a sad look and shook her head. She followed Ben up to the counter. But I stayed put, curling and uncurling my fingers, while the blood pounded in my ears. Then I edged up to the stack of fertilizer and carefully tugged the top bag off the pile. It landed on the floor with a gentle “whomp” and split open, spilling its brown and black innards all over the floor. I carefully spread the mess across the aisle with the side of my foot before I walked up to stand on Ben’s other side.

“We’re open till seven each night during the week,” Angela chatted into the phone. “And six on Saturdays.”

I shook from the effort of trying to hold back my laughter as Ben handed over a credit card and signed the receipt a minute later.

Angela’s uncle pumped Ben’s hand. “Appreciate the business,” he said. “Y’all have a great rest of your evening.”

“Thank you much,” Ben said. “I’ll probably be back for some paint later on.”

Mr. Griffon winked at me, and I felt a tiny spark of guilt for wasting a bag of his
Walt’s Best
—
premium, organic fertilizer.
But then Angela gave us a fake smile and said, “See ya at school,” and I figured if Mr. Griffon had half an idea what his niece was really like he wouldn’t mind too awful much.

We were nearly to the door when Angela let out a gasp. “Oh no,” she wailed. “Look at this mess.”

I knew better than to turn around, but I just couldn’t help it. And as soon as I did, Angela locked her gaze onto mine, and her face turned the color of a beet, and she looked mad enough to spit one of those nails that Ben carried in his paper bag.

“Aw, now, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Mr. Griffon said. “Guess you shouldn’t have stacked them so high. You know where the broom is.”

Ginger raised her eyebrows in alarm, and the laughter bubbled in my chest as I scooted out the door after Ben.

W
e stopped at Mr. B’s Pizzeria on our way home, and Ben bought a take-and- bake pizza so Mama wouldn’t have to cook us supper. I figured Mama needing to stay off her feet might turn out to be a good thing.

“What did you do back there in the lumber store?” Ginger asked, as soon as Ben went in to buy pizza.

“What makes you think I did anything?”

“Cause of the look on your face.”

I giggled. “I just spilled one of those little bags of fertilizer is all.”

Ginger opened her mouth and closed it again. She shook her head.

“What?” I said. “She more than deserved it. I think we ought to work some more on that book report when we get home.”

Ginger smiled, and we both started to laugh. But she hushed me when Ben came back to the truck. So I kept my face to the open window and grinned into the rushing wind.

When we got home, Mama was sitting in the recliner with her feet up, looking all proper and innocent, but the batch of chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter gave her away. I studied her face, trying to tell if she was still put out with me for my comment about the baby, but she didn’t seem upset. “How was the lumber store?” she asked.

“It was good,” I said. “We got gumballs.”

“You did?” Ben said. “How come you didn’t get me one?”

I stared at him, caught off guard. Then it dawned on me it might be a perfect chance to make him happy instead of mad. I fumbled in my pocket for the yellow gumball. “Here, I got two of ’em.”

His eyes flared with surprise. “Aw, thanks, Piper Lee. But I was only teasing. You keep it.”

I figured he was only doing me a favor, but my heart still shrank as I slipped the gumball back in my pocket. Would he have taken Ginger’s white speckled one if she’d offered?

“We got pizza for supper, Mama,” Ginger said. “So you don’t have to cook.

“I see that,” she said. “We can have an early supper, and I can get started cleaning out the storage room.”

“No,” Ben said, in a voice that made even Mama jump. “The girls can do it.”

Mama put her fingertips to her forehead, but one corner of her mouth lifted. “Ginger,” she said, “go on and preheat the oven for us. I’d do it myself, but I’m sure your daddy wouldn’t allow it.”

Ben gave Mama a tight smile. “I’m starting to feel mighty unappreciated,” he said. “I’ll be out unloading the truck if y’all need me.”

Mama giggled as he strode out the door. “Aw,” she said, “now I feel like a big, ol’ meanie. One of you girls need to take him out a cookie.”

“I would,” Ginger said, “but I gotta go pee real bad.”

Mama watched Ginger speed down the hall before she turned back to me. “Go ahead then, Piper Lee. Take him one for me.”

I swallowed. He’d already rejected my gumball. I didn’t wanna give him a chance to reject something else. “Why?”

“Cause it’ll make him feel better, that’s why.”

“How come you don’t do it?”

“Cause I’m ‘sposed to be sitting down, ‘member. That’s what the whole conversation was about.”

My insides started to quiver. “But … what if he don’t want one?”

“Bet he does.”

I couldn’t think of anything more to argue. I picked up one of the chocolate chip cookies and headed out the door. Ben was rummaging around in the cab of the truck, his back to me.

I crept up behind him. “Here,” I said.

He whirled around so fast he whacked the back of his head on the door frame. “What the …” He scowled at me and rubbed his head. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a prison guard?”

I gulped. “S—sorry.” I held out the cookie like a shield between us. “Mama said to give you this.”

Ben studied the cookie, and his face softened. “Did she now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, then,” he said. He winked at me and reached for the cookie. “Guess only a fool would turn down a chocolate chip cookie. Thanks, Piper Lee.” He turned back to the truck.

I’m not sure if it was the wink, or my great relief that he’d accepted the cookie, but something told me it was the perfect chance to ask about Ramsay’s daddy. I cleared my throat. “Uh … Ben? Do you happen to know a prisoner by name of Mr. Joseph Tate?”

Ben grew still for a second, then slowly turned to face me again. “Now why would you be asking me somethin’ like that?”

I swallowed. Maybe he didn’t talk about work on account of all that stuff being confidential. Maybe I was even breaking some sort of law by asking. But it was too late now. “Cause his son’s in my class. And he’s kinda worried about him because they usually write letters, but he hasn’t heard from his daddy in over a month.”

Ben studied me while I babbled my explanation. Then he took a bite of cookie and seemed to mull things over while he chewed. “What’s this boy’s name?” he finally asked.

I rocked back on my heels. “Ramsay. Ramsay Tate.”

“I know his dad,” Ben said.

“You do? So, is he sick or somethin?”

Ben ate the rest of the cookie and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “He’s not sick, he’s in solitary.”

“Solitary? That means he’s all alone?”

“For now.”

Ben looked at me like his answer should’ve explained everything, but all it did was make more questions spring to mind. “Can he get letters?”

“No communication when you’re in solitary. No phone calls, no TV, no visits, no nothin’.”

“So, what do you do all day?”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Well, if you’ve got a lick of sense, you think on what got ya’ there, and how you can avoid it in the future.”

“Oh.” I looked away from his gaze. “But Ramsay said he only has one more year to serve.”

Ben sniffed. “Might’ve been true before he attacked a guard. It’s lookin’ pretty doubtful now.”

“He attacked a guard?”

“Took part in the prison riot last month.”

My eyes widened. I looked at the red line of stitches above Ben’s eye. “The riot you were in?”

“One and the same.”

“Poor Ramsay,” I breathed. “I don’t think he knows. How long will his daddy be in solitary?”

“Depends on if he behaves himself. Probably a few months.”

I was stunned. A few
months
? I thought of how Ben had made Ginger and me stand by the trees for the better part of an hour—how that had felt like forever. I couldn’t imagine bein’ by yourself for months. “He has to sit in a jail cell all that time?”

“He gets out an hour and half every day for exercise.”

“That still sounds pretty awful.”

“Shoulda thought of that ‘fore he screwed up.”

I gave Ben a helpless look. “What should I tell Ramsay?”

“You ought to just keep quiet. It’s best not to get involved in what don’t concern you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, softly, as the weight of his words settled on my shoulders. But Ramsay was so worried about his daddy, how could I not tell him what I knew? It’d be the same as lying, and that didn’t seem right, or fair.

An awkward silence closed around us, and I took a step back. “Well, thanks,” I said.

I looked down at the ground as I headed back to the house. I’d done it. I’d had an honest to goodness conversation with Ben. But it was hard to feel good about it. I’d promised Ramsay I’d have news for him by Monday. What in the world was I ‘sposed to say?

I’d hoped to work more on Ginger’s book report after supper, but Ben set us to work emptying out the storage closet instead. Mama hovered nearby and gave directions while Ginger and I sorted and cleaned and packed armloads of stuff out to the garage.