“Shanice, what exactly do a three-point-eighty-seven GPA mean?”

“It means he’s getting almost straight A’s, Granny.”

“Un-huh,” I mumble, and read every word of each one of them letters even though they all said the same thing. He’s a great quarterback. He’s had a great junior year. His grade point average is impressive, and they hope he considers playing and getting his degree at their school, and then they list all the reasons why he’d like it there. I let the letters fall in my lap, and Shanice comes over with a Kleenex and wipe my eyes.

“I hope I can make you proud one day, too, Granny,” and she gives me a big hug and squeezes me so tight that I accidentally pull off her little curly hairpiece, which, to my surprise, she just throws on the cocktail table.

“You know what, baby? I’m already proud of you. I’m proud of how well you’ve handled all this terrible stuff that’s happened to you, and I pray on my knees every single night that you grow up and become a strong, healthy woman. I pray that, if you can’t forget this, which you probably won’t, that you bury it somewhere so deep you can’t find it. So deep that it won’t never have to haunt you. Watching you smile makes me happy. I won’t lie, now that I know what a GPA means, yours was a three-point-oh if I’m not mistaken, so you might wanna work on getting it up a little higher next year—which will be your first year in high school, am I right?”

“You’re right, Granny.”

“And don’t worry: I’ll be there to watch you run that hundred and two hundred and them relays faster than Flo Jo. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds good, Granny. It sounds real good.”

“Okay,” I say as I open up my tablet and start writing.

“What are you writing, Granny?”

“None-ya.”

“None-ya?”

“None-ya business. But when I finish writing whatever it is I’m writing, I’ma want you to take it over to Miss Loretta’s for me, okay?”

She nods her head yes, and I start.

I been tossing and turning all night, ’cause my chest been getting tighter since this afternoon. I took my pills, gave myself a breathing treatment. Hell, what more can I do? I ain’t feeling too swift, I know that much. I been here too many times before. But I’ma just lay here a little longer and see what happen, plus, I don’t wanna scare Shanice if I have to call 911. Sometime this mess pass. What time is it? I look over at the clock and it say 1:40. Shit. I start coughing again and put my hands over my mouth, ’cause this girl laying right up under me, but I can’t stop. Shit. I been wheezing all day. I knew I shouldn’ta stayed in there with that paint or that carpet for as long as I did. Shit. What difference do it make? I’m hungry. Maybe if I eat something I’ll feel better.