Down and Out in Bugtussle (10 page)

“Well, you look lovely,” she says with a kind smile. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” I put on fresh lip gloss, not to be sexy but to make myself feel better. At least there’s no one here I know. I walk out of the restroom and run right into Drew Wills.

“Woo hoo, girl,” he says. “You look good!” Behind him, I see Logan Hatter.

“Dang, Ace,” Logan says, eyeballing my boobs. “You get all dressed up like this to come to Buffalo Wild Wings?” My face burns with embarrassment and humiliation. I don’t know what to say. I’m seriously considering making up some kind of wild story when Logan says, “You’re on a date.” It isn’t a question. “Chloe was saying at lunch today how excited she was about fixing you up with some guy she thought was perfect for you.” I can’t read the expression on his face and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a little jealous. No way! My brain is just shutting down because of this unbearable humiliation. Why can’t I just disappear right now? They just stand there, looking at me.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say finally. “This guy is such a douche bag. It’s horrible.”

“You want us to invite ourselves to sit with you?” Logan asks.
“Might make things a little more bearable for you.” Wills gives him an odd look.

“No, that’s okay,” I say. “I just—” I think about trying to explain the mess I got myself into by trying to out-shock my date, but then I decide against it. I mean, a person can only withstand so much shame in a thirty-second time frame. “I’ll just tough it out.”

“Well, we’ll be at the bar if you need us,” Logan says.

“Is he a big guy?” Wills asks.

“He’s buff,” I say. “In all the wrong ways.”

Wills laughs and walks into the restroom while Hatter stands there looking at me.

“You look great,” he says. “You really do.”

“Thank you, Logan,” I say, then give him a big hug that lasts a minute longer than it should.

“Call me later if you get lonely,” he whispers.

“Okay,” I say. Don’t do this!

When I get back to the table, my date doesn’t look happy.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asks.

“What the hell was what all about?” I don’t even try not to sound like a smart-ass.

“You go to the restroom to meet other dudes?” He points a meaty finger at me. “You are here with me. I’m buying this meal.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

“I’m talking about you standing over there in plain sight flirting with those two guys and then hugging up on the short one,” he says, a little too loud. People start looking.

“Hey, buddy,” I say in a low voice. “Not that I owe you any explanation, but those guys are my friends. People I’ve worked with for years, so why don’t you pipe down?”

“You don’t tell me to pipe down!” he practically shouts.

“I’ll tell you whatever I damned well please,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t own me just because you take me out and buy me a piece of fucking fried chicken, got it?” I’m pretty sure I could instigate a brawl with this idiot and he would get mad and leave me here, and then I could catch a ride home with Hatt and Wills. I’m sure Chloe would understand. A manager appears at the table.

“Is everything okay here?” the nervous fellow asks. He looks down at Garlen’s arms. Garlen says nothing, so I tell the manager that everything is fine as far as I’m concerned and he hurries away.

“Tell you what,” he says quietly. “Why don’t you call me when you lose fifty pounds?” He tosses his menu down on the table and stands up.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say, getting up as well. I have to concentrate real hard on keeping my voice low. “Why don’t you not call me when you’ve got some hair on that lumpy ass overwaxed dome and find some pants that cover your ankles?” He looks surprised by that, but looks down at his shoes. “That’s right,” I say. “A little on the short side, asshole.” I don’t remember the last time I was this mad.

He glances up toward the bar where Logan Hatter and Drew Wills are craning their necks to look back at him. How fucking embarrassing!

“I assume you can find your own way home.”

“You bet your rock-hard nipples I can,” I say, turning to walk toward the bar.

I take a seat between Logan and Drew and proceed to drown my problems with enormous amounts of cold beer.

S
aturday I wake up and congratulate myself for not going home with Logan Hatter again, even though I really wanted to. I crawl out of bed, swear off drinking forever, and fix a pot of coffee. I take some aspirin while the coffee brews, then pour a cup and head out on the back porch.

Spring is in the air and this lifts my spirits quite a bit. I take a deep breath and relish the warmth. Buster Loo joins me outside and, after some elaborate little-dog stretching, he hops into the yard and makes a few laps in the warm sun. An hour later, I take him for a walk during which he prances around all over the place, which makes me think he appreciates the temperature being over fifty degrees as much as I do.

When I get back home, I call Jalena to see what she’s up to today. Turns out she’s ditched the diner, opting instead to spend the morning on the Gator with Ethan Allen riding around the farm. I
know better than to call Lilly before noon and I certainly don’t want to discuss last night’s date with Chloe, so I go get Gramma Jones’s garden book, pour a fresh cup of coffee, and head back out onto the porch. A gentle breeze ruffles the pages and I can smell that a few of my neighbors have built fires despite the slightly warmer temps. I relax into my lounger and, for some odd reason, feel happy and hopeful.
Don’t question it. Just enjoy it,
I think. I look down at the book on the table and think that maybe, just maybe, it’s already bringing me good luck.

I flip through the first section again and take a minute to study the bloom chart, trying to commit it to long-term memory. The pages in the second section are just as worn as the first. Some are dirtier than others, and it makes my heart ache when I think about my grandmother studying this book before going to work in her beloved flower beds. I look out at the yard, picturing her on her hands and knees, humming like she always did when she worked. I can’t help but think she would be so proud of me if she knew I was sitting here with her garden book, planning a restoration.

In the design section, I recognize several flower bed patterns from the front and back yards. I look at each page, making mental notes of certain arrangements, and then find myself looking at the final section of the book, which is all about trees and shrubs. That’s where I find the first Post-it note.

It’s a tattered little square, black ink on faded blue paper. On it is my mother’s name and a date, June 22, the day she passed away. It’s stuck next to a picture of a lavender Queen’s crepe myrtle. On the opposite page, I find the same kind of note, only this one has my dad’s name and another date, June 25. This note is stuck next to a picture of a white crepe myrtle. I look out into the yard and see
a pair of crepe myrtles skirted by vibrant buttercups. Those two trees have just started to bud and, try as I may, I can’t remember what color they are when they’re in full bloom. I look back down at the book and feel sure that one will be purple and one will be white.

I flip the page and see a note with my grandfather’s name on it. It’s stuck next to a picture of a pin oak tree. I pick up the book, walk out into the yard, and look up at the giant pin oak that shades the back-left side of the house. It’s centered with the back bedroom window, Gramma’s bedroom window, which was the one that she had shared with my grandfather. Around the bottom is another flower bed. In there I see an old stepping stone that I’ve never paid much attention to until today. I lean down, brush the dirt off, and see the inscription, an old Irish blessing.

I look up at the tree. Am I Irish? Was Gramma’s family Irish? Or Papa Jones? Jones doesn’t sound Irish at all. I wonder what my grandmother’s maiden name was. I can’t believe I never asked. I put down the stone and pick up the book.

With each page I turn, I find another note stuck beside another picture. I walk around the yard, identifying trees and shrubs planted for my grandmother’s two sisters, her brother, and her parents. I discover a group of gardenias planted in memory of grandfather’s brothers and his parents. Then I find a star magnolia next to the words “Baby Jones.” I look at the date and do the math. My dad would’ve been two years old when this tree was planted. I’ve never heard anything about my grandmother having another baby. I’ve never seen or noticed a grave anywhere near where my whole entire family is now resting in peace in the graveyard behind the church. My eyes sting with tears as I realize she must’ve had a miscarriage.
I stand and wonder if this Baby Jones would’ve been a boy or a girl. I wonder if Gramma Jones had been far enough along to know. Back then, I don’t think they knew what they were having until it arrived. I stare at the star magnolia. I would’ve had either an aunt or an uncle and possibly some cousins like everyone else I know seems to have in droves.

At the end of the tree section, I find a sticky note that has no name—only a date and a hand-drawn heart. It’s stuck next to a weeping willow, not in the backyard but outside the fence and on the far side of the house. I look down at the heart. Did Gramma Jones have a boyfriend? Is that why the tree isn’t inside the fence? I look at the date. She planted it on December 29, three and half years after my parents passed away. I walk around to the side of the house and look up at the weeping willow. I hate that tree. I’ve thought several times about chopping it down because it’s a nightmare to mow around. I look back down at the book. Who in the world did she plant that pesky thing for?

I walk back into the house and sit down at the dining table. I turn the page and, tucked into the very back of the book, I find a folded piece of light green stationery. I take it out but don’t unfold it. I want to read it, but I’m not sure I want to know what it says. It could be a romantic personal note, meant only for my grandmother’s eyes. Or it could be a recipe for tea cakes. I unfold the paper and then quickly fold it back again. What right do I have to do this? What if it’s none of my business? What if she had a boyfriend who wrote her dirty letters and this was her favorite one? I put the note back where I found it and close the book. Then I go into the living room and put all of her books back into the box, garden book and all. I take the box to the extra bedroom, her old bedroom, and put
it on the bed. I shut the door behind me and go plop down on the sofa. Gramma Jones was the only family I had for a good long while, and realizing how little I know about who she was apart from her role as my grandmother is both embarrassing and depressing. How did I live with her all those years and never know she planted trees in memory of people she loved and lost? No wonder she always took such good care of her yard. Of course, she didn’t lose anyone after I moved in with her. Or I should say that she didn’t lose anyone that I knew of. I wonder if she ever tried to tell me. Surely I would remember. Maybe she knew that one day, I would get to a point in my life where I would pick up that old book of hers and then figure it out for myself.

M
onday morning, I get to school a few minutes late and Chloe is not pleased. She doesn’t mention the date, so I assume she heard it was a disaster and needs no further comment from me. I want to ask her why in the world she thought it would be a good idea to set me up with a shitbag like Garlen Blake, but she’s already on the edge and I don’t want to start an argument. She asks me where Lilly is and I tell her that I haven’t talked to her.

“She really needs to tell us what’s going on so we won’t be worried about her!” Chloe barks.

“I’m sure she’s fine; she’s a grown woman,” I say, and that earns me a nasty look. What the hell is going on here? I wonder. I ask where Stacey is and she says, “Ms. Dewberry arrived at work on time and already has her assignments for the day.” She pushes a stack of file folders toward me. “Here’s yours.”

“I’m in the gym today?” I ask.

“Yes,” she snaps. “Is that a problem? I only have one teacher out in A and B Halls. I have two coaches out, so you’ll have a busy day.”