edge of the porch, I holler, “Get back here!” She not only ignores me, my sister doesn’t even bother to look both ways as she tears across the street to what she’s honed in on—the cemetery. “Don’t ya wanna finish your picture of . . . ah?”
I look down at what she’s been coloring on, already knowing that it’s going to be something morbid. Like a woman getting beat by a horned Satan or a hairy beast with foamy madness dripping off its stalactite teeth. Sure enough, today’s drawing reminds me a lot of our dog, Mars. Only it’s real bloody and gutsy. I should tell Woody that dog is never coming back. I really should.
“Quit catchin’ flies with your mouth and do something!” I shout at E. J. He’s lazing against the railing, watching with jaw-dropping adoration as my sister zigzags through the headstones to the side of Bootie Young, who is up to his belly button in a fresh grave. The reason E. J. is not rushing after her is that he knows what Woody has got herself all worked up about and it’s not Bootie Young.
Making my point, she doesn’t even seem to notice that handsome hunk as she begins pacing. Up and down . . . down and up . . . flapping her arms the length of the grave. Flapping is the second most irritating thing she does next to eye blinking, which always makes me think she’s trying to send me an SOS in Morse code and I don’t know Morse code. I better get over there quick before she does something wholly unpredictable.
“She’s not hurtin’ anybody,” E. J. says, clamping on to my arm as I rush past him. “Leave her be, Shen.”
I rip out of his grasp. “Get off me!” I’m surprised by how mad I am, and by the look on his face, E. J. is, too. “Quit telling me what to do and if you ever touch me again you . . . you . . . minin’ sludge . . . I’ll . . . I’ll—”
“Shenandoah Wilson Carmody!” Beezy admonishes. “Apologize to Ed James right this minute.”
“But he . . . he—”
“Shenny,” Beezy demands with a stomp of her little foot.
“Yes, ma’am.” I back off and say to E. J. in my most ladylike voice, “Pardon me ever so much,” so Beezy will forgive me, but she can’t see me lifting my fingers up to his cheeks and pinching him hard as I want.
Stupid kid. He’s acting like Woody and him have already tied the knot.
C hapter Five
F ollowing the exact same route through the headstones and mausoleums that Woody did, I pass a slew of our dead relatives on the way towards Bootie and his hole. Grampa’s also got a graveyard up at his place where some Founders are laid to rest because this cemetery wasn’t around back when they succumbed to Indian raids or plow accidents or plain old scarlet fever.
“‘Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights, hurrah!’” Bootie is singing. He’s rehearsing. He always performs the traditional Civil War song “The Bonnie Blue Flag” at the opening ceremonies of Founders Weekend because he was born with a creamy baritone that can reach out into a crowd and grab it by the throat.
The Young family works a dairy farm, but according to a couple of reports that I heard him read up front of the classroom when Woody and I were still attending school, waking at the crack of dawn to milk crabby cows holds no interest for Bootie. He wants to attend college so he can be an archaeologist, which is a bone digger, so this cemetery job is good practice. Because he’s had to miss so much school during planting and harvest times, even though he’s in the same grade as Woody and me (going into seventh), he’s a year older at thirteen but looks even older, like all the farm boys do. I bet there’s still plenty of girls that draw his name inside hearts all over their schoolbooks or pass him mushy notes that are SWAK—Sealed With A Kiss. I don’t have time for that lovey-dovey stuff. I’m too busy worrying about Mama, taking caring of Woody, and keeping watch over Papa, so I am always courteous to Bootie when I run across him,
I look down at what she’s been coloring on, already knowing that it’s going to be something morbid. Like a woman getting beat by a horned Satan or a hairy beast with foamy madness dripping off its stalactite teeth. Sure enough, today’s drawing reminds me a lot of our dog, Mars. Only it’s real bloody and gutsy. I should tell Woody that dog is never coming back. I really should.
“Quit catchin’ flies with your mouth and do something!” I shout at E. J. He’s lazing against the railing, watching with jaw-dropping adoration as my sister zigzags through the headstones to the side of Bootie Young, who is up to his belly button in a fresh grave. The reason E. J. is not rushing after her is that he knows what Woody has got herself all worked up about and it’s not Bootie Young.
Making my point, she doesn’t even seem to notice that handsome hunk as she begins pacing. Up and down . . . down and up . . . flapping her arms the length of the grave. Flapping is the second most irritating thing she does next to eye blinking, which always makes me think she’s trying to send me an SOS in Morse code and I don’t know Morse code. I better get over there quick before she does something wholly unpredictable.
“She’s not hurtin’ anybody,” E. J. says, clamping on to my arm as I rush past him. “Leave her be, Shen.”
I rip out of his grasp. “Get off me!” I’m surprised by how mad I am, and by the look on his face, E. J. is, too. “Quit telling me what to do and if you ever touch me again you . . . you . . . minin’ sludge . . . I’ll . . . I’ll—”
“Shenandoah Wilson Carmody!” Beezy admonishes. “Apologize to Ed James right this minute.”
“But he . . . he—”
“Shenny,” Beezy demands with a stomp of her little foot.
“Yes, ma’am.” I back off and say to E. J. in my most ladylike voice, “Pardon me ever so much,” so Beezy will forgive me, but she can’t see me lifting my fingers up to his cheeks and pinching him hard as I want.
Stupid kid. He’s acting like Woody and him have already tied the knot.
C hapter Five
F ollowing the exact same route through the headstones and mausoleums that Woody did, I pass a slew of our dead relatives on the way towards Bootie and his hole. Grampa’s also got a graveyard up at his place where some Founders are laid to rest because this cemetery wasn’t around back when they succumbed to Indian raids or plow accidents or plain old scarlet fever.
“‘Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights, hurrah!’” Bootie is singing. He’s rehearsing. He always performs the traditional Civil War song “The Bonnie Blue Flag” at the opening ceremonies of Founders Weekend because he was born with a creamy baritone that can reach out into a crowd and grab it by the throat.
The Young family works a dairy farm, but according to a couple of reports that I heard him read up front of the classroom when Woody and I were still attending school, waking at the crack of dawn to milk crabby cows holds no interest for Bootie. He wants to attend college so he can be an archaeologist, which is a bone digger, so this cemetery job is good practice. Because he’s had to miss so much school during planting and harvest times, even though he’s in the same grade as Woody and me (going into seventh), he’s a year older at thirteen but looks even older, like all the farm boys do. I bet there’s still plenty of girls that draw his name inside hearts all over their schoolbooks or pass him mushy notes that are SWAK—Sealed With A Kiss. I don’t have time for that lovey-dovey stuff. I’m too busy worrying about Mama, taking caring of Woody, and keeping watch over Papa, so I am always courteous to Bootie when I run across him,
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