A Sliver of Sun (7 page)

Ginger gave it a few seconds of thought before she shrugged. “That don’t sound too bad.”

Mama glanced at me, but I looked away. I had no idea what to say. Making up pretend names with Ginger was one thing, but hearing Mama talk about names for real, well, that was just plain creepy.

“Got any girl names?” Ginger asked.

“Well, I’ve always liked the name Vanessa. In fact,” she paused long enough to smile at me, “if your daddy hadn’t been so hell bent on naming you after his favorite airplane, you would’ve been my little Vanessa Rose.”

All I could do was stare at her. I couldn’t believe she’d never told me that before. It was like she’d just sprung some big secret on me … in front of Ginger, no less.

Ginger took a breath. “Vanessa Rose,” she echoed. “I love that name. It’s so pretty. Does Daddy like it?”

“I don’t rightly know. I haven’t asked him yet.”

I pulled the plug on the rinse water and stared down at the little whirlpool that formed. I couldn’t imagine being named anything other than Piper Lee, and especially not something all poofy and girly like Vanessa Rose.

“Honey?” Mama asked gently. “What do you think?”

I rolled my eyes at the sink. “I don’t much care what you name it,” I said. “That’s up to you and Ben.” Then I threw my towel on the counter and stalked outside.

Ben was tinkering on his Mustang again, and I brushed past him and climbed up on the trampoline. I started to bounce as high and as hard as I could. And it helped me stop thinking about dumb names and even dumber babies and how things used to be—at least until Ginger showed up.

I quit jumping and scowled at her. “Quit following me everywhere.”

“I’m not following you. It’s
my
trampoline. Just ’cause you’ve lived here a few weeks don’t mean everything’s yours.” She kicked off her shoes and climbed up beside me.

I dropped down on the mat and wiped sweaty bangs from my forehead. “Okay, you don’t need to give me a five minute lecture.”

“Well, somebody ought to.”

I glared at her.

“Well, it’s true. All Mama asked was if you liked a name and you went storming out like you were all mad.”

“Mind your own business, Ginger.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Fine. I’m just sayin’ you shouldn’t be mean to your mama. You don’t know what it’s like not to have one.”

Guilt stabbed me like a pitchfork, and I felt an overwhelming need to defend myself. “I wasn’t tryin’ to be mean, I just don’t have any opinion about names is all. Besides, you’re plenty mean yourself.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“You’re the one who kicked me under the table.”

“You earned it.”

“Get off my trampoline, Piper Lee.”

“No. And don’t boss me around.”

“Get off!”

“Make me.”

Usually it took a while for Ginger to get riled up enough to fight back, so it caught me off guard when she reached out and yanked my hair. The pain raced across my scalp and it was all I could do not to holler. I grabbed her wrist and dug my fingernails in hard as I could. She let go of my hair and screamed like a wounded Tom cat.

“Hey!” Ben shouted. He tossed his wrench aside and strode over to us. “What is wrong with you two?”

Ginger held out her arm, limp at the wrist like it was broken. “Look what she did to me, Daddy.”

Hot anger pumped through me as I rubbed my head. “You pulled my hair first.”

Ben put his hands on his hips and glared back and forth between us. “Why’d you pull her hair, Ginger?”

Ginger screwed up her face, and I could see her mind racing to make up a whopper of an excuse.

“She told me to get off her trampoline,” I added helpfully, “and I wouldn’t do it.”

“That’s
not
why, Piper Lee. It’s ’cause you were bein so bratty to Mama about the baby names.”

Ben turned his eyes back my way, and panic shot me like a jolt of electricity. “I wasn’t,” I mumbled.

“Were too,” Ginger said. “And all I did was tell you not to be mean to her like that, and then you got all put out and started …”

Ben held up one of his big hands like a stop sign. “Okay. Hush. You’ve both been acting like two year-olds since supper. And all this kicking and scratching and hair pulling is gonna stop right now, you hear me?”

My face prickled with shame. “Yes, sir,” I said.

Ginger gave a tight-lipped nod.

I hoped that might be the end of it, but I could tell it wasn’t, on account of the way Ben was still eyeing us. “Y’know what happens to the guys at the prison when they start attacking each other?”

His question hung in the air like a big, heavy cloud of doom, while all kinds of craziness filled my head. What
did
happen to them? Did they get hung up by their toes? Beat with a wet noodle? Put in a straight jacket?

“They go to solitary,” Ben finally said, solving the mystery. He pointed Ginger to the nearest pecan tree. “Get over there and face that tree.” He gestured me to an oak about twenty feet away. “And you go face that one, and I don’t wanna hear a peep from either of you.”

“For how long?” Ginger asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

Ginger shoved her feet in her flip flops and sulked off like she’d been given a life sentence. But I headed for my tree feeling relieved. Relieved Ben hadn’t doled out a worse punishment, and that he hadn’t demanded more explanation about Mama and the baby names.

I eased up against the tree trunk and rested my forehead against my arm. My tree was covered with spongy Spanish moss that smelled fresh and good, but I was glad to see Ginger’s tree had a rough, scaly trunk. Served her right, the little whiner.

And as for Mama, well, if I
had
been bratty to her, I figured I had a right. She’s the one who had dropped the whole Vanessa Rose thing on me. What a dumb name. Not anywhere near as good as the one Daddy had given me.

Ben headed back over to the Mustang and started clanging around again. He wore a blue tank top, and you could tell how far down the sleeves came on his prison guard uniform because his arms were a shade browner below. I remembered how he’d called us ‘two year olds,’ and it made my face heat up all over again on account of I knew he was right. I didn’t understand what made me like Ginger one minute and want to kill her the next. Maybe it was because she was only my step-sister and not my real one.

Two tiny ants scurried across my elbow before disappearing into the moss. I peeled away a chunk of bark looking for them, but they were gone. I dug a little U-shaped trench with my bare toes on both sides of the tree until a fuzzy tickle distracted me. Mowgli brushed past my ankle.

“Hey, boy,” I whispered. “Hey, Mowgli.” I reached out my toes to touch him, but he moved just out of reach and sat down to lick himself. Ben dragged the garden hose past a few minutes later, and I peeked around the tree to watch him spraying off engine parts. I wondered how long he’d make us stand there.

It brought to mind a poem by Shel Silverstein. I couldn’t remember the title, but it was about a boy who got sent to the corner for fidgeting too much in class. But the teacher forgot he was there, and the next day summer break started, so he stood there all summer. And then in September, they closed the school down, so the boy stood there for decades, all alone and forgotten in a boarded up building.

I figured Ben would be more than happy to stick
me
away in some boarded up, abandoned building. What reason did he have to like me? All I did was make his life harder. Sure he loved Mama, but I wondered if he ever regretted marrying her on account of me. And the thought made my eyes smart with tears.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was back home again in our old apartment. I could see my bedroom with my toys spilling out from under the bed, and the way the fan made my blue curtains ripple. I could hear the radio playing in the living room, and I could see Mama and me sitting together on our old green couch, just the two of us — with no Ben and no Ginger and no thought of any future baby in the picture.

But after awhile, a bee buzzed my ear and made me open my eyes. A rainbow of water droplets sprayed from Ben’s hose, and Ginger scratched her leg, and I knew that no amount of wishing or daydreaming could make things like they used to be.

T
he next morning, Ramsay was late for school again. He slid into his seat ten minutes after the bell, one of his pant legs caught in his sock, and papers spilling out his backpack. I turned away, embarrassed. Too bad his desk was so close to mine.

Mrs. Holloway twisted around from her white board. “Good morning, Ramsay. Glad you could join us. Do you have a late pass?”

Ramsay swept the bangs from his eyes. “Uh, no ma’am.”

Angela snickered.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll need to go to the office and get one. And hurry back because I’m about to assign reading partners.”

Ramsay turned my way as he stood, but I looked away real fast. It made me feel a pinch guilty, as most of the kids ignored him. But there was no way I was giving Ginger any more fuel to add to her fire from last night.

“All right now,” Mrs. Holloway said, “where were we? Oh yes, here’s how our first quarter reading assignment will work, boys and girls. I’m going to pair each of you with a partner and assign each pair a different book. For one hour each morning, y’all will read and make notes on your book. Then at the end of the month, you’ll each write a book report. One of which will be read to the class as an oral report.”

A noisy groan filled the air, but our teacher only smiled and started pointing. “Robert and Clarice, you’ll be a pair. Brian and Jacob.”

I white knuckled my chair, waiting to see who’d I get stuck with for a partner, and praying it wouldn’t be Ginger.

“Kinsey and Ramona. Ginger and Angela. Piper Lee and … Ramsay.”

Ramsay!

I gritted my teeth so hard I was afraid my jaws might crack.

Ginger and Rowdy started twittering behind me, and a fire storm rushed my face. But Mrs. Holloway didn’t seem to notice a thing. She just kept naming names ‘til everybody was paired up, then she started walking around, passing out books.

Ramsay made it back to class just in time for our teacher to hand both of us a copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
. He flashed me another half-second smile—just like when I’d picked up his pencil—but my jaw was still clenched too tight to even think about smiling back.

“Oh, n-o-o-o!” Angela shrieked. “I hate this book, Mrs. H.”

Even though Mrs. Holloway had given permission to call her Mrs. H, it was the first time anybody had actually done it. And it sounded mighty strange … daring almost. We all whipped around to see Angela holding up a copy of
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
, looking at it like it was some big disgusting tomato worm.

“You’ve read it?” Mrs. Holloway asked.

“No, but I hate Mark Twain.”

Our teacher flinched. “Samuel Clemons is one of the greatest story tellers ever, Angela. Why would you hate him?”

“Because it takes him twenty pages to describe somebody’s front yard. I can’t stand lots of details like that. I want another book.”

“And what kind of books do you like to read, Angela?”

“The kind they make into movies.”

Ginger’s giggle rang out above the rest of the laughter. “Huckleberry Finn
is
a movie, silly,” she blurted. “Don’t y’know?”

Everybody really cracked up then—except for Angela. She didn’t even smile. She slowly swiveled Ginger’s direction with a dirty-eyed scowl that wiped the grin right off Ginger’s face.

“I believe Ginger is right,” Mrs. Holloway said, “there is a movie version. But even on the printed page, I guarantee the story has plenty of action. Give it a try.”

Angela shrugged. “I’ll fall asleep if I try to read a book like this. Just give me a zero.”

Mrs. Holloway seemed to suddenly grow taller the way she drew herself up, and all the snickering and smirking skidded to a stop. Ginger’s eyes darted back and forth between Angela and our teacher, kinda like a mouse with a hawk circling overhead.

“The book report will be a significant part of your grade,” Mrs. Holloway said, “so I think you’d regret getting a zero, Angela. But aside from that, our reading time takes up an hour each morning, it’s something we do as a class. So, you can either take part along with everyone else, or you can spend that hour in detention each day with our principal, Mr. Hoffmeister. I’ll leave the choice up to you.”

I didn’t know much about Mr. Hoffmeister, aside from the fact that his belly hung over his belt and he liked to wear bowties. But I could tell from the delighted hub-bub from the class he wasn’t somebody you’d want to spend time with.

Angela crossed her arms. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Holloway said, “that’s a good idea.” Then she continued around the room, chatting about classics and how it was good to stretch your mind with a challenging book. I took a closer look at
To Kill a Mockingbird.
It looked pretty challenging all right. It was thick and heavy, and there weren’t any pictures.

“It’s easy,” Ramsay whispered. “I already read it.”

I’d been trying my best to ignore him, but my ears perked up when I heard that. “You read this whole thing?”

He nodded. “Over the summer.”

I gave him a suspicious look. “Who’s the main character? Girl or boy?”

“Eight year old girl named Scout.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. There’s a boy named Gem too. Scout’s his little sister.”

Him saying
little sister
moved my thoughts away from the book and over to Mama and her ultrasound. I wondered what exactly an ultrasound showed. It didn’t seem like it could show a whole lot this early on. I didn’t figure the baby could be bigger than a button or something.

And then right that very second, as I stared at my copy of
Mockingbird,
something flashed into my mind, as bright as a pie tin in the sun. Something big and unbelievable—and yet so cotton pickin’ simple I couldn’t believe I hadn’t gotten it before.

Mama had said they liked to do an ultrasound at sixteen weeks. That was four months. But she and Ben hadn’t even been married
one
month. Mama must have gotten pregnant almost three months before she got married! The notion caught me so much by surprise I had to suck in a breath.