Joanie and Cricket were two lonely children who had played in a crib together when their mothers visited, who walked to school together each morning, and who shared the Sunday school lesson paper at church because they were in the same class. Joanie was the youngest child of the Adams household, a hodgepodge of children from Mr. Adams’s two marriages, all boys and all older than Joanie. After the first Mrs. Adams died, the second Mrs. Adams—Joanie’s mother—took over, raising her husband’s sons and then adding two of her own plus one daughter. From her brothers, Joanie had learned to be tough, but she was not their friend. They avoided her like the plague. John—or Jack, as he was called—was two years older than Joanie, but he pretended not to see her when they were at school. And as far as Hubert Jr., Jack, Marshall, and Allen were concerned, she barely existed.
Cricket, on the other hand, was an only child, a much-wanted baby born to mature parents who had given up on the idea of having children. Overjoyed, they set about making his life as carefree and abundant as possible. Nona Adams teased Eleanor that the baby’s poop barely got into the diaper good before Eleanor wiped it away. Cricket’s mother also put off letting him walk outside because she didn’t want him to get the soles of his shiny white baby shoes soiled. Called Cricket by the neighborhood children—because, they said, he looked like Jiminy Cricket in the Pinocchio movie—the boy was so pampered that he might have become a spoiled brat had it not been for his friendship with Joanie Adams. She was his conscience and his courage.
Where Cricket was hesitant, Joanie was bold. If Cricket was afraid, Joanie pulled him along, surprisingly strong considering how skinny she was, and made him do whatever it was that frightened him. And so he sprained an elbow when she pushed his swing really high; he climbed trees even though he was terrified of heights; and he skinned his knee when Joanie gave his bicycle a shove to help him go faster. She was with him to face down a pack of bullies who called him a sissy. Cricket had been so scared of the boys that he turned and ran. But when Leander Shaw pushed Joanie down onto the sidewalk, Cricket ran back and gave Leander a solid fist to the jaw, much to everyone’s surprise. But not Joanie’s. She knew that Cricket would die for her if she asked him to. They would be friends forever. He’d even promised to protect her from dragons, although they hadn’t found one yet.
But even Cricket couldn’t protect Joanie from her mother. Nona was not going to be happy when she saw how dirty Joanie was.
Joanie used a handful of leaves to wipe the mud from her knee. It still looked a little dark around her kneecap, but that was okay. A quick spit bath took care of the scratch on her shin. It wasn’t even bleeding now. Well, not much. But the grass stains on her dress were a worry.
“You’re never gonna get that out,” Cricket said, leaning down to get a better look, his hands on his knees. His voice had been full of satisfaction.
“Oh, shut up!”
He shook his head, an expression of doubt on his small face. “No, look.” He pointed at the stain with his mud-tipped finger. “The more you wipe it, the bigger it gets.” Cricket frowned and squinted. His mother was taking him to pick up his new glasses next week. He dreaded it. “And now it’s turning gray.”
Joanie held up the front of her skirt for a closer look. No. It didn’t look good. And it wasn’t really gray, more of a brownish-greenish color and . . . it did seem to be spreading. There were blue cornflowers on the fabric. She bit her lip. Would Mother notice?
“Who’s Dorothy Mae, anyway?” Cricket asked. “Why is she somebody special you got to keep clean for?”
“She’s my cousin. From Cleveland. Her mother, Aunt Ava, she’s my momma’s big sister. Dorothy’s all grown up now. She went to college in Atlanta.”
Cricket shrugged. “It’s called Atlanta?”
“Nooooo, dummy, it’s in Atlanta,” Joanie corrected him. She couldn’t remember exactly what the college was called.
“Is that good?” Cricket asked.
Joanie wiped the front of her dress with the back of her hand, dismayed to see that the once brownish-greenish stain was now just plain brown.
“Uh-huh. All my momma’s aunts and sisters went to this college in Atlanta. Dorothy, she’s smart. And pretty. She knows things.” Joanie wasn’t even trying not to brag. She was crazy about Dorothy Mae. Dorothy Mae was everything Joanie wanted to be when she grew up. She was not only smart. She wore beautiful clothes, and she went places and did things. Dorothy Mae had visited San Francisco, she’d been to Mexico to study art, she’d been to a city called Accra—that was a place in Africa—and she’d been to Montreal, a cold place up north where people spoke French. Dorothy could speak French too.
Cricket was impressed. “What’s French?”
“It’s a . . . language,” Joanie said, pronouncing the word carefully. “They use words different from the ones we use, but they mean the same thing. Like . . .” She touched her top lip with the tip of her tongue. “Like ‘chapeau.’”
“What’s that mean?”
“‘Hat,’” Joanie said, looking again at her skirt. Half of the front was now damp and gray embellished with a semicircular stain of deep brownish-gray with streaks of vivid green. The tableau might have made an interesting finger-painting. As a dress, it was a disaster.
Cricket followed her gaze and laughed.
Mr. Adams’s oilcan was desperately needed.
The back screen door screeched as it opened. “What’s going on out there?” Nona Adams yelled.
The children looked at each other.
“Nothing!”
Chapter 10
Joan
Mother was not pleased when Joanie came in, because her dress was a mess, her knees were skinned and grubby, and her hair had worked its way out of the braids and now stood out like a crown of corkscrews encircling her head.
“Joan Ann Adams.”
Oh Lordy. It was never a good thing when Mother used her full name.
Nona’s expression was grim. She pointed toward the back staircase.
“March upstairs, take off all of those . . . grimy clothes, and put ’em in the basket. Wash your face, hands, neck . . .” Nona grabbed her daughter’s ear and looked. “And behind your ears.” Her gaze lowered to Joanie’s knees. She sighed. “And your knees. Take off those socks, and polish up your shoes . . . Joanie! What were you and Cricket doing to get so filthy?”
Joanie didn’t answer at first because she wasn’t sure what to say.
Nona smiled and nudged her toward the stairs. “Never mind. Just hurry up, girl. Aunt Ava, Dorothy Mae, and them will be here shortly.”
Joanie scampered up the stairs.
“And bring me down that comb and brush. Your hair’s come a-loose.”
Washing up and getting her hair combed and braided was a small price to pay for getting a front-row seat at the dining room table when company like Aunt Ava and Dorothy came to visit. Mother’s dinner would be a gut buster—all of Joanie’s favorite foods: fried chicken and perch, green beans, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and pies—peach and banana crème. Her mouth watered just thinking about it. But the real treat had nothing to do with food. If Joanie behaved herself, was quiet and didn’t ask too many “’pertinent questions” (her grandmother scolded her for asking those), then Mother would let her stay up late and listen to the grown-ups’ conversations after dinner. That was almost better than Christmas.