At the same time, though, Old Glenwood isn’t all bad. It’s not like good people don’t live here. I slow to a stop at Ches’s street, peering out at the house she shares with her mother and five brothers. For a moment I consider stopping by on a whim.
Ches’s mom loves me, along with all her boys and their friends, and she’s got an open-door policy when it comes to guests.
But then I notice Matt’s Jeep there parked on the street, and I can’t help the feeling I might be intruding in some way. He would have said something on the phone if he wanted me to know they were hanging out. I press the gas and head for home and Grandma Lou’s tuna casserole.
Matt and Ches are my best friends, but little moments like this remind me that before I came along and made us a trio, they were very much a duo. And I’m okay with that. I try to remember that the bond they share runs just a little bit deeper and that there are some things time can’t replace. That’s no one’s fault. At least that’s what I try to tell myself.
When I pull into the driveway, Grandma Lou is outside with the hedge clippers, hacking away.
“Do they look even?” she shouts over her shoulder.
I roll the window down. “Looks great,” I lie. Never mind the gaping hole in the lantanas. Normally I can’t stomach a lie, but Grandma Lou’s sanity is on the line here. “Beautiful!”
She yanks off her gardening gloves and tosses the clippers behind the hedges. I sigh and write myself a mental note to put those away later.
It’s not that we have a beautiful, well-manicured lawn that she’s dead set on maintaining. When I moved in and Grandma Lou realized she’d have to take good enough care of herself to see me through high school, she traded smoking half a pack of Virginia Slims a day for yard maintenance, and I’ve gotta say, she was way better at blowing smoke rings during bingo than she is at keeping her flower beds alive.
I throw my backpack over my shoulder and follow her inside to the kitchen, where she washes her hands, and sure enough, a tuna casserole made with spaghetti noodles is cooling on the stove. Grandma Lou is actually a great cook, but the woman loves her canned meats. Dad always said it was a generational thing. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not hereditary. My idea of spaghetti Thursday would definitely include spicy red sauce and lots of that to-die-for powdery Parmesan cheese that comes in a plastic shaker.
“Let’s sit at the table tonight.” She pulls two fresh plates from the cabinet. “Turn off that TV, would ya? I want to hear about your day.”
“You got it.” I duck into the living room—or as Grandma Lou calls it, the parlor—and my eyes practically water from how loud the six o’clock news is.
“Are you trying to get a noise complaint from Miss Ella?” I call over the news anchor.
“Oh, that old dinosaur already has plenty to complain about.”
Digging through the brocade throw pillows on the couch, I search for the remote. “Nice way to talk about your best friend!” I reach my hand between the cushions. There it is!
Behind me the news anchor says, “Cindy Ramirez is reporting live from Glenwood City Hall, where council members are debating the recent uptick of rabid dogs and possible—”
I click the TV off over my shoulder and toss the remote back on the couch. The current rabid dog situation in our town is almost as polarizing as a presidential election, and I just don’t have the brainpower for it today.
At the kitchen table, Grandma Lou is waiting with two dishes of casserole and a liter of ginger ale.
I plop into the chair across from her and let out a contented little sigh.
“Let’s say grace,” she says.
I nod, and we hold hands and close our eyes. We both sit in silence, saying our own prayers. Grandma Lou says that praying out loud is about being loud, not being heard. I don’t really pray to anything in particular. I’ve never had any trouble seeing all that’s good and all that’s evil in the world, but something about a higher power feels like a game of make-believe that not even I can bring myself to have faith in. But I’m starting to wonder, with all the weird stuff going on, if someone somewhere is pulling the strings. Still it’s a nice moment of quiet every night to think about all that we’ve lost and all that we still have to be grateful for. At the very least, we have each other.
And way too much tuna casserole.
She squeezes my hand to let me know she’s done. “Dig in, baby girl.”
2
The Hopper County Fair is held on the outskirts of town near the old and now defunct paper mill. The fair is one of my favorite events of the year. It’s the kind of gathering that makes me nostalgic for a version of Glenwood I never even knew, a time when there were no bad neighborhoods or Old Glenwood. Only Glenwood. All in all, it’s a good way to spend a Saturday.
Grandma and I ride over with Miss Ella, our next-door neighbor and, though she admits it only grudgingly, Grandma Lou’s best friend.
As I’m getting out of the back seat in the dusty makeshift parking lot, Miss Ella, who is the epitome of little old white lady, checks to make sure the scarf tied around her perm is securely in place. “You know, Sal down the street told me he heard they were going to have metal detectors this year to keep out those gangs and that they might even fence the grounds with barbed wire to keep those damn dogs out.”
I sigh and look to Grandma Lou. Fake news, she mouths.
And I can’t hold back my laugh.
“What?” asks Miss Ella. “You think our safety is a joke?”
I turn to Grandma Lou. “I’ve got to get to the rescue booth.”
She nods. “You run ahead. I’ll hang back with this slowpoke.”
Miss Ella huffs. “That’s a sight I’d like to see. That girl running.” Something inside me bristles. I am not a tiny girl. Fat. Plus-size. Curvy. Whatever you want to call it. Not many people comment on my size. Grandma Lou thinks it’s because I’ve got such a commanding and cheerful demeanor, but there’s the occasional jerk at school and then there’s Miss Ella, who still thinks that a woman’s value is calculated by the measurement of her waist. I almost say something back to her, but I don’t want to be rude. Besides, if she’d be shocked to see me running, she’d probably have a full-on freak-out if she saw what else I could do.
“Ella, I’m about to lock you in that car with the windows rolled up.” Grandma Lou winks at me and I give her a thankful grin before running my fat little butt up to the fairgrounds, swishing my hips for Miss Ella to see.
Ches is waiting for me up by the ticket booth, pacing back and forth, her long black skirt billowing around her combat boots laced with purple tulle instead of shoelaces.
“I told you to wear jeans,” I say, even though she looks fab.
She spins on her heel and shrugs. “I know.” She groans. “I just woke up possessed by the ghost of Stevie Nicks. And jeans make me obsess about my butt. Is it too round? Too flat? Too wide? A skirt is just so freeing.” She reaches into her midnight blue velvet messenger bag and pulls out something lavender. “But at least I brought the rescue T-shirt you gave me.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
She loops her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s go save the puppies or whatever.”