Chapters (44)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Julie Murphy
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
“Hand me that wrench, Waylon.”
I sit up too soon and hit my head on the frame of the cabinet. “Shit,” I whisper as I rub my forehead.
Grammy chuckles. “You’re lucky Cleo’s sunning herself in the backyard. She’d have a bar of soap between your teeth faster than you could say Judas.”
I retrieve the wrench and hand it off to Clem.
“Check the faucet, will ya?” she asks.
I hop up and peer out the window over the sink to the backyard, where Cleo is laid out on a lounge chair in an old-fashioned-looking black swimsuit with daisies lining the straps. She holds a big foil shield, like the kind you put in the window of your car, and is using it to reflect the sun onto her face.
“How does that white lady not have skin cancer?” asks Hannah.
Grammy takes a sip of her tea. “Cleo’s been oiling up with Crisco since we were girls and she’s already outlived two husbands and a boyfriend. She thinks she’s gonna live forever. There’s no telling her.”
I turn the faucet on. “No leak,” I confirm. Holding a hand out, I yank Clem up onto her feet. “That was fast.”
“Which means we’ve got time for pie,” says Clem as she plops down next to Hannah.
I let out a guttural groan and check the time on my phone.
Grammy takes my hand and pulls me down beside her. “Come on now, Pumpkin. Just a quick bite.” She tugs on the collar of my polo. “I swear, with these clothes your mother buys, she’s got you lookin’ like a damn insurance adjuster.”
I roll my eyes and yank my hand free of hers. When I let loose, my mash-up of a southern Valley Girl voice and animated gestures might be a dead giveaway if your only barometer of a gay guy is how femme he is. But at school I do my best to keep a low profile, and that means steering clear of most social circles and wearing all the oversized polos and cargo shorts my mom showers me with on Christmas and birthdays. Handsome and sensible, as she puts it.
Clem’s mouth is already full of rhubarb and pie crust. “Oh, God, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”
“One slice,” I say.
Clem reaches for the pie server. “That was the appetizer slice. This is my real slice.”
“And then home,” I tell her.
She winks. “Sure thing, Pumpkin.”