Chapter 5
Chapter Five
HATTIE
My mind won’t slow down Monday night, so I don’t get to sleep until four a.m. Which means I hate nearly the entire world Tuesday because Mom’s household motto is You Can Sleep When You’re Dead. And as long as I am alive, I have to be up by seven.
So, when she bangs on my door Tuesday morning, making death sound pretty damn luxurious, I wonder aloud if group home residents get to set their own hours.
And thus continues what I have dubbed The October Skirmish.
We are four battles in when we meet Margaret and Grandma Eloise at Bon Temps Grill for lunch on Wednesday.
I do not care for lunch at Bon Temps Grill. Naturally, that means it’s Grandma Eloise’s favorite, so we have to go there like twice a month.
Don’t get me wrong. Bon Temps Grill is a nice place. They earn double points for having a brunch menu. Minus one point for only offering it on Saturdays and Sundays. I won’t get to order the Crab Cake Bennies or Bananas Foster French Toast today.
So, now, I’m glaring at the lunch menu, trying to ignore Mom and Grandma Eloise’s suggestions that I get the Blackened Chicken Lettuce Wraps. They think they are being clever, trying to fool me into ordering a salad you eat with your hands.
“Too messy,” I say, shaking my head and not looking up from the menu. I scan my options. Maybe I’ll just get a variety of sides.
When I spot sweet potato mash on the list, a lazy smile slides across my lips. What are the chances that Beck grew those sweet potatoes? I will have to ask him.
But not now.
When I texted him yesterday after I finished a dreadful response paper for Operations Management, it was hours before he replied.
Beck: Hey, beautiful. Sorry for taking so long. I don’t look at my phone when I’m on the tractor. Too dangerous for me and my crew.
I couldn’t move for a few minutes after I read that: A) Because he called me beautiful.
B) Because I hadn’t thought of sweet potato farming being dangerous, but once I did, picturing a tractor and—I don’t know—big harvesting machinery, my mind threw a little intrusive thought party before I could bring my focus back to A).
BECK THINKS I AM BEAUTIFUL!!!!
“What’s so amusing, Harriet?” Grandma Eloise snips, intruding into my reverie.
I know better than to share. A) Grandma Eloise cannot be trusted with such things, and B) After Mom treated Beck like a pedophile on Saturday—and after our resulting fight, which was Part A of Battle the First in the October Skirmish—she has proven herself—at least temporarily—unworthy as well.
I will myself to meet Grandma Eloise’s cool stare, which is not something I enjoy under normal circumstances, much less during the October Skirmish.
“Are you sure you want to know? It could be about the Porcelynne stabilized satin I stitched into my bodice to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.”
Grandma Eloise’s eyes narrow and she lowers her voice. “If you think you’re hiding that fact, young lady, you are sorely mistaken.”
I lift my bust. “But you can’t see my nipples—”
“Hattie!” Mom grabs my wrist.
My back stiffens, and I twist out of her grip. Part B of Battle the First of the October Skirmish was about the way she manhandled me on Saturday. I don’t make eye contact with her but look across the table at Margaret instead.
“Was that too loud?” I hiss whisper, but judging from the curious faces at the table around us, I already know the answer.
Margaret winces. “Just a bit.”
My face heats. I try to hide that with a sip of iced tea. But it’s unsweet, so I wrinkle my nose and put it down. I reach forward and grab three packets of sugar from the little container on the table.
“Oh, Hattie, I have stevia if you—”
I ignore Mom, tearing open the packets and watching the ice cubes in my tea turn to little snowy mountaintops.
“Willful little—”
“Grandma, what are you going to order?” Margaret blurts, cutting off our grandmother.
They start comparing salads, and I’m suddenly so, so tired. I don’t even bother to stir the sugar into my tea.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, and the sensation centers me. I’m wearing a caramel-colored rayon babydoll dress that I retrofitted with pockets because dressmakers still don’t realize that pockets are apparel necessities.
And the sensation on my leg not only grounds me, but it reminds me that I modified this dress—with the bodice lining and the pockets—to be what I wanted. I changed the way things were to my liking.
And that’s empowering.
Phones at the table are frowned upon in my family. But I think my lunch experience needs some enhancement. I don’t get a lot of text messages. Chances are good that it’s Beck. And, if it is, chances are even better that my lunch experience will improve.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and hide it under the table in my lap.
Beck: Breaking for lunch. Been thinking about you. How’s your day going?
Pressing my lips together so my smile won’t give me away, I relish the warm tingle that climbs up my sternum.
Me: WEDNESDAYS ARE MY LEAST FAVORITE DAYS.
Holding tight to my phone in one hand, I stir my tea with the other. I’m not sure if I succeed in acting naturally, but a scan of the table shows no one is watching me.
Beck: Why are they your least favorite?
ME: ON WEDNESDAY, MY MOM, MY SISTER, AND I HAVE LUNCH WITH MY GRANDMOTHER. SHE IS NOT A FAN OF MINE. THE FEELING IS MUTUAL.
I’ve only shared a little about the October Skirmish with Beck. Mostly just my apology for Mom’s behavior and a bit about Mom and Dad’s secret keeping. I’m not about to say anything to him about group homes.
I’d die first.
It has been a while since a guy paid any attention to me. But that’s not why I like him. Just because someone pays attention to you doesn’t mean that it’s welcome. Sometimes another person’s attention can make you feel like an oyster having its shell pried open.
But oysters open their shells to breathe and eat. Basically, when they feel safe. And that’s how Beck’s attention feels. Like it’s safe to breathe and eat. Like it’s safe to just be.
And I don’t want to lose that feeling just now. I don’t like the idea of anyone thinking I need to live in a group home. Not my parents. Not Margaret.
And definitely not Beck.
Beck: Hmm. Trying to imagine someone not being a fan of yours. Nope. Can’t do it.
There it is again. That warm tingle. Like sparklers on parade.
Me: GRANDMA ELOISE IS A FAN OF ONLY A FEW THINGS: SCOWLING. JUDGING. RIDICULING. OH, AND BON TEMPS GRILL.
Beck: Sounds like she has a lot in common with my dad.
Is that where you are? Bon Temps?
Me: UNFORTUNATELY, YES.
Beck: What’s wrong with them? They buy our Beauregard Sweets.
Me: THEY DO?? I WONDERED! I WILL ORDER THE MASH!!
I’M SICK OF COMING HERE FOR LUNCH. THE MENU HAS TOO MANY LEGS.
Beck: You lost me. Too many legs??
I look up again, grateful that now Mom, Grandma, and Margaret are deep in conversation about Margaret and Merrick’s honeymoon plans. They are going to Hawaii. Grandma Eloise has known this for a couple of months. So this is not the first time I’ve heard her input.
“Brace yourself for the positively staggering amounts of homeless people, Margaret,” she says, scowling. She lifts a bony, liver-spotted hand. “Tent cities on every median. Under every bridge. You can’t throw a stone without hitting a homeless person.”
I snort. “Margaret would never throw stones! And certainly not at a homeless person.”
Mom grabs my wrist again under the table. Luckily, it’s not the one I’m using to hold my phone.
“It’s a figure of speech, dear.”
I don’t look at mom. Instead, I twist out of her grip again.
Margaret pushes her hair behind her ears, her brows lowered. “I—I think ‘unhoused’ or ‘houseless’ is the preferred term now.”
Grandma Eloise’s face squishes up like a prune. “What? Why on earth—”
Margaret tries to explain, but I know this is just the beginning of a fruitless effort, so I take my opportunity and stealthily snap a picture of the Bon Temps Grill menu. I send it to Beck before typing:
Me: NOT ONE, BUT TWO LEG APPETIZERS: SWAMP LEGS AND FROG LEGS. I’M SORRY, BUT NO. AND SWAMP LEGS CONTAIN TWO DIFFERENT KINDS OF LEGS: DUCK AND ALLIGATOR. NO. NO. NO.
Beck:
“—Because housing insecurity shouldn’t carry a stigma, Grandma.”
“Why on earth not? If people don’t work to put a roof over their heads, they should be ashamed.”
I close my eyes and open them when my phone buzzes again.
Beck: What’s your favorite restaurant? I want to make sure I do it right when my schedule settles down and I can take you on a real date.
A real date.
The night we first texted, I couldn’t quite believe he wanted to see me again. And now—
BECK WANTS TO TAKE ME ON A REAL DATE!!!
This is almost too much to absorb sitting still. Because, as far as I’m concerned, our upcoming coffee-in-the-park is very real and is very much a date.
At least, I think it is.
Wait. Maybe he doesn’t.
Does he?
Me: IS SATURDAY COFFEE NOT A REAL DATE???
“Harriet!” Grandma Eloise snaps. “Our server is waiting to take your order. Lands, child, get your head out of the clouds!”
When I jump, my phone clatters to the floor. Counting myself lucky it landed face down, I bend over to pluck it up, and it takes me a moment to remember what I’d planned to order.
“Um… sweet potato mash… braised Brussel sprouts, and, um, a side of the jalapeno cheese grits.”
Mom leans closer, wincing. Her breath smells like mustard as she whispers, “Are you sure you want the sweet potatoes and the grits, honey?”
I want to pull away, but if I do, I’ll fall off my chair. “You’re in my space—”
“Mom, just let her get what she w—”
“There’s no sense in trying to reason with her, Hillary,” Grandma Eloise brays behind her glass of iced tea. Unsweetened iced tea. “She has no interest in slimming down.”
I don’t move, but a part of me just flips the Closed sign.
The server must take the menu because it was on the table in front of me, and now it’s not.