Atlanta’s about to protest, but it’s too late. Mama’s already letting the Latino kid with the oil-slick hair and the round acorn-storing cheeks in the door.

Mama waves like she did something nice, like this earns her credit or karma or something, and then she vanishes quicker than a lake monster.

Latino Charlie Brown doesn’t say anything. They stare at each other in the cramped kitchen. Finally: “You want a TV dinner or something?”

He nods. “Okay.”

She gets him something that looks (but probably doesn’t taste) like lasagna.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

They’re watching one of those gavel-banging shows on cable. Blah blah blah. Dog bit my leg. Bitch dinged my car. Deadbeat won’t pay for a paternity test.

The couch has as much give in the cushions as a body with rigor mortis, but what’s even less comfortable is the space between her and the boy.

She hands him the remote. “You want to watch something else?”

“Nah.” He pauses. “Well, I do like the Food Network.”

“This is basic cable. We don’t get the Food Network.” She blinks. “You watch the Food Network?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like to cook?”

“Yes.”

“Then that lasagna you’re eating probably tastes pretty bad. Like tomato paste pressed between layers of shoe leather or something.”

He puckers his lips. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Let’s go back to the kitchen. You’re going to cook me dinner for saving your tail today.”

She can’t lie. It’s the best grilled-cheese sandwich she’s ever had. Has a good crunch but isn’t burned. Soft in the middle. A little sweet, too. She tells him so as they sit at the rickety card table that serves as a dinner table.

“The secret is to cook it low and slow in an iron skillet,” he says as if he’s been practicing this line for his own food show. He even waves his hands around, gesturing like he’s on camera. “If you had Brie cheese, I’d make it with that. That’s the best way.”

“Brie. Sounds French.”

“It is French.”

“So, not cheap?”

“Not cheap.”

“Your family can afford Brie?”

“Well. Uh. No.”

Her eyes narrow. “You ever eaten Brie cheese?”

He hesitates. “Not exactly.”

“Whatever. This is a good sandwich whether it has cheese made by French surrender monkeys or not.”

“You know, that’s a myth. That the French were all cowards. The French Resistance was instrumental in helping America win the war.”

She just shrugs, keeps eating her sandwich.

“I put a thin layer of mustard in the middle,” he says.

“Ish sho good.” They sit and chew. She says finally, “I figured you’d make, y’know, Mexican food or something. A chalupa.”

“A chalupa.” Blink, blink.

“Yeah. Why? Is that racist or something?”