“Let the girl be.” Gran’s voice trails out after Momma’s.
“I won’t get dirty!” I promise over my shoulder. “I just want to go and show Devin the new art set Gran got me for my birthday.”
“Fine.” She sighs. “But only for a bit. Your daddy is on his way home any minute, and the woman who’s taking our pictures called to say she’s on her way.”
I race down the rickety stairs of the back porch and across the yellowing grass to the house next door. It’s a little bigger than ours, a little nicer too. Devin’s daddy was a big-time college basketball star. At least, that’s what Momma says, but I believe her cuz’ her and Devin’s Momma were best friends growing up. Kinda like how Devin and I are now, only he’s a boy and I’m a girl.
The autumn grass crunches under the uncomfortable plastic shoes Momma made me wear for the pictures. They are the ugliest pink I’ve ever seen, and I’m a master artist, so I know my colors.
Ugh! I twist uncomfortably. I wish I could take this stupid thing off and put on my jeans, but Momma says we’re taking family pictures today. I don’t know why today is any different. Momma’s always taking pictures, mostly of herself, but I’m sure she has enough photos on her digital camera to make her own family photo.
Last night, I heard her and Daddy arguing about how much she spent on today’s photoshoot. Said he’d have to borrow money from Gran for the electric bill. Then Momma said if he hadn’t spent so much money at the bar, we could afford a nice family photo.
No one bothered asking what I wanted, ‘cept Gran, that is.
I skid to a halt in Devin’s backyard. He’s digging up red clay with a stick. “Hey! Dev!” I shout, shaking the art kit in his face. “Look what Gran got me?”
Angry brown eyes soften when they land on the shiny plastic box in my hand. I drop to my knees, smearing the rust-colored dirt into my white tights. “Happy Birthday Roni bologni.”
I roll my eyes at the stupid nickname. “I told you, it’s bologna, not bologni.”
He blinks at me. “But bologna doesn’t rhyme with Roni.”
“Exactly why it’s a dumb name.”
He bops me on the nose. “But you’re just a dumb girl.”
I smack him on the arm. “Do you want to see what’s inside or what?”
Before he has a chance to answer, his Momma peeks her head out the back door. Her blonde hair hangs down to her elbow and her sleepy blue eyes find mine. Momma said Ms. Maisie was the prettiest girl in their school, which makes sense because Devin’s daddy is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s like a prince from one of those Disney movies the other girls in my class ramble about. “Roni, your Momma called. Told me to tell you not to get that dress all messed up before your pictures.”
I groan out a response. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ms. Maisie turns to Dev. His scowl is back. “Your daddy called too. Said him and that boy are staying at the park a bit longer.” She lifts a plastic red cup to her lips to hide her sneer, but I see it.
Momma said Ms. Maisie hates Noah, Devin’s half-brother, but that Devin’s daddy threatened to get a divorce if she wasn’t nice to him. I asked at school what divorce meant, figuring it was pretty bad if it scared Ms. Maisie straight, but was shocked when I found out the answer. I don’t think it’s so bad. I wish my Momma and Daddy would get a divorce. Two houses, two Christmases? That’s gotta be better than all the fighting, right?
“Yes, ma’am,” Dev mutters.
His Momma takes another sip from her cup then disappears inside the house.
“Noah’s here?” I ask, glancing around the yard even though I know Ms. Maisie just said they were at the park.
“No dumb-dumb.”
I narrow my eyes at my best friend. “I don’t mean here, here. I mean, he’s staying at your house this weekend?”
“Yes.” Devin sulks. He pops open the buttons keeping my art case closed and pulls out one of the chunky markers.
“Is that why you’re out here kicking dirt?” I ask. Devin loves his brother, probably more than he loves mac-n-cheese, but lately he gets all moody when Noah’s around.
“I am not out here kicking dirt,” he mimics, tossing the marker around in his hand. “I’m thinking.”
I snort. “What are you thinking about?”
It’s his turn to narrow his eyes. “I’ve got a big brain so I think about lots of stuff. You’re just a girl, so you wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.” I deadpan.
“Well.” He scrunches his nose and stares up at the sky. After a few beats, he returns his attention to me, his hand flicking the hem of my ugly pink dress, it's the same radioactive shade as my shoes. “Right now, I’m thinking about how you look like a girl in this frilly thing.”
“I do not.” I snatch my marker back from the jerk and snap it safely back into place.
“Do too. You look like Veronica Rose Abernathy, the smelliest flower in the garden.”
A roar rips from my throat and I lunge forward, pushing him back into the dirt. “Take it back,” I shout, pushing his shoulders down.
“Never.” He grunts, rolling so he’s on top of me. “I’ll never take it back because you are a girl, a stupid girl with a stupid frilly dress, with a stupid bow in her stupid hair.”
His eyes go up to the bow and he loosens his grip to flick the bow. It slides from where momma clipped it in and hangs on the side of my head.
I use his temporary distraction to flip us again. “And you’re just a stupid boy who’s sitting in the backyard kicking up dirt with a stick.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you more,” I spit right back.
I grab a handful of dirt. I raise my fist in the air to beat it into his chest, but before I get the chance, I hear my Momma yelling. “VERONICA ROSE!”
The dirt slips through my fingers and my heart sinks because I know I’m in for a whoopin’. Scrambling to my feet, I wipe off some of the dirt from my clothes, hoping it isn’t as bad as I think it is. I smooth a hand down the front and my finger gets caught in the torn fabric. I’m definitely getting a whoopin’.
Devin is up seconds after me. “Just let me do the talking,” he whispers.
“You’ll get me in more trouble.” I huff.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?” I bite my wobbly bottom lip as I watch Momma storm over to us. “What did I tell you?” she shouts. “Ten minutes. I asked you to be a normal little girl for ten fucking minutes.” Momma snatches me by the arm and pulls me to her.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s my fault,” Devin says, trying to angle his body between us. “She wanted to show me her new markers and paint, but I wanted to play.”
Momma’s eyes trail between us, then to my discarded art supplies. “She knew better.”
“She did,” Dev replies. “I pushed her. It’s my fault. Really, don’t blame her.”
Momma sighs, releasing her grip on me. “Get home. Get cleaned up, or so help me God.”